Five Times: Watching and Waiting
by Ira Lea
Summary: Five times Sherlock didn't know John was watching, and one time he made sure of it. Five times John didn't know Sherlock was watching, and one time he figured it out. Three years of "he's dead", one moment of "he's alive", and the resulting chase through the streets of London. (Two 5:1s in quick succession and a bonus). NO SLASH, updated regularly, warnings for REICHENBACH SPOLIERS
1. Chapter 1

_**AN: So, my two weaknesses are posting too quickly and notes that are too long. I'm working on fixing that, so I'll just give a brief explanation as to what this is.**_

_**This story will have thirteen chapters, three parts in whole. The first two parts are five : ones, so that's twelve chapters right there, and the last part is the conclusionary piece.**_

_**This particular chapter is part one of **_**'Five Times Sherlock Did Not Know John Was Watching and One Time He Made Sure of It'. ****_Phew, that's a lot of capitals!_**

* * *

John tried to move as quietly as possible as he entered the flat, not wanting to disturb Sherlock (if indeed the man _was_ asleep—you could never could know, with him). John didn't know why he was trying to be so courteous—Sherlock certainly never returned the gesture.

John felt a little prickle of anger as he reflected on the events of earlier that night. He'd thought he'd gotten over it, out on his little midnight walk, but apparently not.

_He'd entered the main room feeling refreshed from his quick shower, having just gotten dressed and toweled his hair dry. He was planning on updating his blog and going out for a quick stop at Tesco's to get some small necessities. It was a nice, open night—the kind where he really could do anything he wanted with his suddenly ample amount of free time, and the night seemed to stretch unbroken before him. There were no cases, no shifts at the clinic, and no other pressing matters that might send him out at a moment's notice._

_Except—Sherlock._

_Sherlock was curled up in his chair, scowling into the distance and savagely picking at the fraying hem of his silk housecoat, muttering under his breath. "What's wrong with you?" John had asked idly._

_Sherlock, jerked out of his musings, had been offended, to say the least. "Isn't it obvious!?" he'd demanded with a histrionic, the-world's-against-me, frustrated-to-no-end kind of huff. "I'm—"_

_"Bored?" John guessed, cutting him off._

_Sherlock had glared at him, eyes narrowing so sharply that John immediately knew that what he said next wasn't going to be pleasant—because whenever Sherlock was offended, he took it out on the offender by _deducing_ him._

_"Yes…" he'd replied slowly, silvery eyes darting purposefully, looking John up and down so thoroughly that John couldn't help bracing himself for whatever came next. _

_Such a barrage of deductions ensued that John had trouble keeping up with them, but for once he didn't find them brilliant. They were invasive, they were rude, they were caustic and hurtful. And finally—John had had enough. His weak, annoyed protests escalated into arguing, which escalated into something more._

_"Why do you always do this?" he demanded, breathing heavily. "Look, Sherlock, I am sorry that you are bored, okay? And I am sorry that you feel the need to lash out, but this is going too far!"_

_"Oh, so now you're my mummy?" Sherlock bit back in disgust. "Going to boss me around, are you?"_

_"No, but I am not going to take this!"_

_"S'not my fault you're so sensitive."_

_And it escalated more, into shouting._

_Finally, heatedly: "Do you treat all of your friends like this?!"_

_And the furious reply: "No, because I don't _have any_!"_

_Silence. John had stared at Sherlock for a long, long moment, processing that._

_Then in flurry of movement, he'd stalked out of the room._

_Mrs. Hudson had met him at the door, asking him where he was going and why he didn't have a jacket. He'd heard Sherlock's voice, petulant and cross as always: "I hope you freeze!"_

_John, in his anger, had shouted back, "Yeah? Well _me too_!" And then he'd slammed the door and stalked off into the chilly night air._

John heaved a quiet, mournful sigh now as he remembered. He knew he could've acted better there, been more understanding. He knew Sherlock by now—knew the detective's ways. It was always his first impulse to defend himself the only way he knew how—by lashing out, by observing, by noticing, by _deducing._ It wasn't entirely his fault. John could've waited it out, ignored it.

But it hadn't been the deductions that had made John leave. It had been that one admission: _I don't have any!_ That hurt more than any deductions Sherlock had made about John's current girlfriend.

A light was on in the kitchen. John gathered his courage now. He had to apologize; maybe Sherlock would return the courtesy, maybe not, but John knew that he at least had to recognize that while Sherlock had been in the wrong, he himself had also overstepped the line, if only a little. So he stepped into the room, quietly, instinctively not wanting Sherlock to know he was there yet—afraid he'd still be irate, still set in 'attack mode'.

He peeked around the corner—and stopped. Sherlock was sitting at the table, but he wasn't bent over an experiment or peering into the lens of a microscope. He was staring into space, chin propped on hands, elbows set on tabletop. And the look on his face—he looked so lost, and confused, as if something tragic had happened and he still hadn't figured out how it had come about.

He hadn't noticed John, standing in the shadows, which is how John knew that he was preoccupied with something very concerning.

Sherlock blinked, still staring at a blank expanse of wall, frowning slightly in some terrible sorrow. Then, abruptly, he shoved his chair back and shot from his seat, pacing the kitchen and muttering to himself, fingers tapping, snapping, running through his dark curls.

"Idiot, stupid idiot…" John caught the words and his puzzled expression darkened slightly, thinking Sherlock was talking about him. The next phrase he heard, however, erased that theory and he realized with a start that Sherlock was talking to himself. He heard only snatches, but they sounded worrying. "How could I be so dense?...Gotta do _something_…idiot…moron…what to do…"

What had Sherlock so upset?

"Got to talk to him…yes…apologize?...No…yes…I _have_ to…I wonder if he's cold…"

Then John realized he was talking about him.

"Didn't even take a jacket…death'll be my fault…should text him…but…apologize? How…?"

With a frustrated, agonized sigh, Sherlock collapsed into his chair, letting his head drop into his hands and clutching at his hair. He looked so distraught that John couldn't take it anymore. He knocked lightly on the door. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock jumped up as if jolted. "John!"

John reflected again on the fight—and this time, felt no anger. He knew now that Sherlock hadn't meant it, was just as bothered by it as John was. Now he smiled comfortingly and stepped forward, extending a hand. "Look, I think an apology's in order…"

* * *

**_AN: So, this is part one. _****Five times Sherlock didn't know John was watching, and one time he made sure of it.****_ You'll notice I forsook the capitalization this time._**

**_Now, these next couple chapters, I'll warn you, aren't connected chronologically. It's a 5:1. It's just five instances in their lives where a particular type of scenario took place. In the second part, they might seem a bit more connected. However, overall, this whole piece will tell one long story. :) Their story._**

**_Here's to the hope that y'all will enjoy!_**


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN: I've now got a decent foundation of a following, a couple favorites, and a review, so, now that I know I've got your attention, I shall continue. Lucky it didn't take that long, eh?**_

_**Here is part two of **_**Five times Sherlock didn't know John was watching and one time he made sure of it. ****_(Yeah, I've pretty much given up on capitalization. On the other hand, I have random urges to capitalize random words in that title, but not others. It's rather tedious)._**

**_Also, I would like to note that I have not had this story (or any of mine, actually) Brit-picked. Sorry for any Americanisms, but I am ignorant to the ways of the British, which is unfortunate as Britain seems delightful._**

**_And a final reminder: This is not chronoligically linked to the first chapter. There is no plot connecting them. This is a _****5:1**

* * *

**2:**

The first thing he was aware of was a steady beeping. Maybe some would have found it annoying, but he found it strangely comforting—something about its steady constancy seemed to herald good news.

The second thing he became aware of was an aching pain that seemed to pervade his whole body—but was mostly centered around his chest and one leg…the left one.

The third thing—well, he wasn't quite sure what it was. A light pressure on his right hand.

John opened his eyes—and closed them again quickly in response to the harsh light that almost blinded him, shifting slightly in discomfort. But the glimpse, quick as it had been, was enough for him to realize exactly where he was.

_A hospital._

And with that revelation, the confusion John had been enveloped in since awakening was flung off, and he remembered.

The case. He and Sherlock had tracked the criminal—the _bomber_—to an abandoned tenant building. But then, inside, Sherlock had had some sort of epiphany—he hadn't explained it to John at the time—and run out, shouting something about the bomb being in the adjoining building. John assumed the detective was intending to find and neutralize it, and the army doctor had stayed to search out the criminal. But wait…that wasn't quite right. Because the building_ John_ was in had blown up…hadn't it?

Oh, right. Sherlock had called John only five minutes after their splitting up, shouting something about John getting out _right now_ because he'd been wrong and gotten the buildings mixed up. John had immediately started moving, heading for the nearest window (he was on the second floor and didn't have time to descend the stairs). Then…_boom._

He had a brief, confused memory of being trapped under the rubble, listening to Sherlock call for him. The detective had sounded so scared, so full of fear, that John had instinctively been gripped by terror just to listen.

The last thing he remembered was some of the rubble being shifted, of Sherlock's face appearing just as John was slipping back into unconsciousness.

_"John! John, hold on. The police are on their way; we'll get you out. Just hold on!_"

Sherlock. Where was Sherlock?

The question terrified John, and he heard the beeping—_heart monitor_—speed up slightly. Quickly he opened his eyes, blinking against the light but looking around anyway, searching, instinctively looking for—

The beeping slowed again as John felt a wave of relief wash over him. Sherlock was there, Sherlock was with him, slumped in a chair next to his bedside. Just as John had, innately, known he'd be.

Now, John groggily took in the state of his sleeping friend, noting the bags under his eyes, the pallor in his cheeks, the wrinkled state of his clothes. He looked like he'd not eaten or slept for a long while…which could be explained if he'd been at John's side since the explosion.

John watched, feeling a warmth embrace his heart at the thought. Though Sherlock was asleep, worry was still creasing his brow, and his fingers were firmly grasping John's own, explaining the pressure John had felt upon awakening.

John allowed himself a small smile and a feeling of warm gratitude before again sinking into oblivion.

* * *

**_AN: These are all so short! This was all intended to go on one document, you know, but my studies have shown that multi-chaps get more of a general reception than oneshots..._**

**_You know what? It irks me how short this is, so you're getting another chapter tonight. Part three's on its way._**

**_You're welcome. :)_**

**_Love, C.L._**


	3. Chapter 3

_**AN: I'm trying to give each of these parts their own atmosphere. If you've noticed, the first was kind of normal, right? A normal day, and it kind of showed John and Sherlock bickering, because their relationship isn't perfect, as much as we wish it was. The second was more controlled, and quiet, and calm, and I keep thinking "white". This one is dark red in my mind (I think in colors; the first was orange, like the light of a street lamp), and I'm sure you'll understand what atmosphere I was goin' for.**_

* * *

John woke gradually, as awareness slowly, slowly took hold and pushed away the veil of sleep. He actually couldn't quite pinpoint the moment when dreams became replaced by reality.

Something—_something_—had drawn him from his slumber, twisting into his mind and reveries and catching hold; haunting notes pulling at his imagination. At some point, the melody evolved into something more than just a figment of his dreams—and he realized with a groggy start that he was awake, still listening to the melancholy notes.

He managed to blink most of the sleep from his eyes and glance at the clock. _2:44._ In the morning.

John sighed and pushed himself out of bed, pulling his robe on over his jammies and cracking open his door. The rest of the flat was completely dark, no lights on at all. Silently, stealthily, John slipped from his room and down the stairs, not making a single sound to give himself away as he drew closer to the source of the music.

In the main room, a tall, familiar figure was only sparsely outlined by some meager light leaking in through the closed curtains from the lit streets outside. John watched in rapt attention, mesmerized as it paced slowly about the room, sound emanating from the graceful instrument in its hands. John felt frozen, unable to move as the notes entranced him, wrapping around him and holding him firm.

How was it possible that someone so outwardly cold could call up such gripping, moving music? The melodies and harmonies twirled together to form something truly heartbreaking, and John could only wonder what it was Sherlock was thinking to produce such a sound.

Then, for a moment, the self-declared consulting detective turned in such a way that the light from the windows highlighted his face and John could see it in stark relief. The doctor caught his breath softly. Sherlock's features were set in an expression he'd never before seen—somewhere between grief and bliss, sorrow and ecstasy, mourning and rapture. It was as if the man were letting some inner misery out in the only way he knew how—the music—and that's what John would have guessed, but for the utter contentment reflected in the lines of Sherlock's face. Whatever he was doing—whatever he was releasing into the air of their flat—wasn't giving him grief, but absolute joy—a calm, quiet kind of joy.

Finally, John thought of the right word, the right metaphor. Closure. Sherlock reminded him of a man who was letting _go _of some grief—a man who was saddened by his story, but elated in that he could finally tell it.

The moment passed in the blink of an eye, as Sherlock moved out of the light, continuing his fluid, controlled dance around the room. All that was tangible was the music, the gloomy, mournful music—but now John could sense the underlying note of hope and serenity. The mix was mesmerizing, enrapturing, beautiful.

John didn't know how long he stood there, unmoving in the grip of Sherlock's music. He didn't want to make a move, for fear of Sherlock noticing and stopping. John didn't want to interrupt what he felt was very, very important to his friend. But, as he heard the song winding down, he felt the strong urge to leave. Sherlock hadn't noticed him as of yet, but once he was done, once the music no longer filled his mind and distracted him, he would at once realize his friend's presence—that much was assured. And, for some reason, John didn't want Sherlock to know John had heard or seen anything. The thought made him distinctly uncomfortable, as if what he had witnessed was exclusively private, and John was invading some sacred, hallowed event.

Silently, he slipped back up the stairs to his room, and waited out the final moments of the song in his bed.

Those final, somber notes seemed to ring through the flat—and through John's dreams—for the rest of the night.

* * *

_**AN: Also short, but I gave you two, so no complaining! The fourth's atmosphere is lighter, but at the same time...not. If you know what I mean. Which you probably don't.**_

_**Sherlock-Related Food For Thought of the Day:  
**__Have any of you noticed how, in the first episode, neither John nor Sherlock really smiled at first? John would try sometimes (he grimaced kind of when talking to Mike) and Sherlock...well, you'll probably remember the instances when he tried. Those would be the moments when all the viewers laughed because everyone knew it was fake and it was, frankly, hilarious._

_Neither kenew how to smile anymore._

_But then, after they met each other, they began to open up a bit more. Thean there was that conversation in the resteraunt - - broke the ice a little. And then, that chase through London, following the cab: that was the turning point._

_They both laughed so hard, and John (I'm sure you noticed) __**giggled**__. It's like before, they both had something wrong, inside of them, and they couldn't smile. And then they fixed each other._

_I didn't notice this consciously, but it was pointed out on Pinterest, and demonstrated by the picture that currently serves as this piece's cover. Check it out. _


	4. Chapter 4

_**AN: HOLY CATS IN PAJAMAS I AM**_**SOOOO**_** SORRY! I was compeltely swamped with testing and it's the week before finals and I had church duties and...and...**_

_**Right. Story. Sorry about that wait. I said I'd update reglarly, and waiting four days is not acceptable. Will try to be better from now on. But back to the story...**_

* * *

It was easy for some people to forget that John was a soldier. He was too nice, too mild-mannered, too _normal_.

John didn't forget.

And he had a feeling that Anderson wasn't going to forget anytime soon, either.

It had been a normal day at a crime scene. Sherlock had swept in, John at his heels. Anderson had complained, Donovan had failed to keep a few choice remarks to herself, and Lestrade was at wits' end. It was normal, everyday stuff.

Then Anderson had taken it too far.

Sherlock knelt over the body, tugging the dead man's wallet out of his pocket and rifling through the contents, taking note of not only the credentials but the various states they were in. John watched, barely daring to breathe, as Sherlock put it back, and looked over the rest of the body, taking each thing slowly and seriously. He watched as the detective stood and circled the corpse with slow, calculated steps.

The man didn't give any outward sign of noticing the whispered conversation between Anderson and Donovan—no sign that anyone else would see, anyway. But John, accustomed to his friend's ways, noticed the tightening of his eyes, the tension in his hands, the slightly clipped way in which he stepped.

Sherlock was probably more annoyed with the fact that they were talking at all—noise was not something he welcomed while making deductions.

John, however, was rapidly getting fed up with the conversation itself.

_"Unnatural, it is._"

"_Agreed. He should be in a mental institution, not moping about a crime scene."_

_"He's going to contaminate it. There's only one way this can end."_

_"Self-righteous prat thinks he's better than all of us…we were actually trained for this."_

John felt his fists clenching, and tried to control his breathing, staring fixedly at Sherlock, ignoring them. Sherlock glanced askance at him, as if sensing his barely restrained anger, and seemed to understand. He shook his head just slightly, barely enough that only John noticed. _Don't do it._

He knew John too well.

"_Wonder what he's paying the 'good doctor' to follow after him all the time."_

_"Told him to get a new hobby. What's your bet on?"_

_"With Watson? Hmph. Golf."_

_"Really? I really think he should try fishing."_

_"Doubt he'd be able to handle either of them. Why does he stick around this freak, anyway?"_

_"Dunno."_

_"Adrenaline junky, mark my words. He likes the thrill."_

John closed his eyes and tried to tune them out. Sherlock, again displaying the remarkable ability to see when his friend was about to lose it, stood up abruptly and began spouting off deductions right and left, practically laying out the dead man's whole life story for all present to read. John tried to concentrate on his friend's words and ignore the two standing behind him.

However, just as Sherlock was running down…

"_Sometimes I wonder how he could know all that."_

Donovan, sounding equal parts awed and resentful.

A rustle of paper. "_How much you wanna bet he did it?_"

That was it.

Anderson didn't know what hit him. One minute he was holding out a little bundle of bank notes to Donovan, and the next, a deafening crack had made everyone's heart leap and Anderson found himself with an empty hand. The bank notes fluttered to the ground, shredded. Anderson stared at his hand a moment, and looked for the source of the sound.

John was all the way across the room, Browning in hand, glaring at Anderson. "No. Bet." he growled.

Anderson looked back and forth between the gun, John's face, the bank notes on the floor—and the bullet hole in the wall, right by his nose.

John glared at Anderson one final moment before twirling the gun around his finger and shoving it back into his trousers. The flourish was unnecessary—but he couldn't resist, with Anderson watching with such big, astonished eyes.

John looked at Lestrade, daring him to object, and then at Sherlock, expecting him to be smirking at Anderson or doing something else equally smug. Instead, Sherlock was looking almost as shocked as Anderson, as if he honestly hadn't expected John to react so violently in his defense. He looked like he was just realizing something that he knew he should've seen before.

"Sherlock, you said something about a mother-in-law, right?"

Sherlock blinked the surprise away and nodded at John. "Yes, I did."

"Then let's go. Lestrade—I think Anderson's going to need a blanket. One of the orange ones."

As they strode out of the room, John again looked at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock seemed to have gotten over his shock and was now smiling to himself, smirking cheerfully. He glanced at John with a look in his eye that was almost admiration—and, upon finding John looking back, he broke out into a grin.

John grinned back.

* * *

**_AN: I'll admit...I enjoyed writing this. Immensely. Can't you see the look on Anderson's face?_**

**_I don't have time for much more right now, but here's what I'll do to make up for the hiatus: If you want multiple chapters tomorrow, tell me in a review, and I'll post the extra to make up for my absence. Two or three, but not four. I do have limits...seldom though they make an appearance._**

**_If I get no reviews telling me thus, I'll assume multiple chapters aren't wanted and only post one. Your choice._**

**_Love, C.L._**


	5. Chapter 5

_**AN: Holy cats in pajamas, Christine - - it's like you KNOW. After this, I am following with a five:one about Sherlock watching John, and then I have a chapter called 'Through the Streets of London' where - - guess what? - - THERE'S A CHASE. AND TACKLING. And I wrote all of this A MONTH AGO. Are you psychic?**_

_**Three chapters, people. The extra as a reward for Christine. Yes, that spew of happiness was a review. And it made my day.**_

* * *

_**5:**_

John had memories of Harriett as a good big sister—the kind that played with a little brother when he was bored, and comforted him when he was sad, and laughed with him when he told a joke. She was, honestly, the maternal figure in his life after their alcoholic mum died when John was too young to remember. It was almost as if she had taken it upon herself to give him the mother she had lacked.

However, she had had a special bond with their father, and when he died…that had been the start of it. A series of tragedies, hardships, and general bad luck soon had Harriett looking to the bottle, and John almost felt as if he'd lost both of his parents the night his father died, as well as the girl who he had once called 'sis'.

They argued. He tried to snap her out of it, and she thought he was being silly. But, eventually, the argument became a fight, and the fight escalated into—well. John had stalked out of the room, cheek smarting where Harriett had slapped him, leaving his sister to stare after him in utter shock—whether at what she'd done, or his reaction, he never knew.

All these thoughts and memories ran through his head now, as he answered the door of the flat and found—guess who?—_her_ waiting on the other side.

He immediately looked to see if she was drunk. Her face was flushed, but by the way she was shivering, it could have been from the cold, and the fact that she was shivering at all was good. She was standing without any help, and not swaying—also a good sign. Her breathing was normal, and she didn't look intoxicated. On the contrary, she was staring at him in shock, as if she had come here without really thinking and it hadn't really hit her that she'd see him if she did.

"John…!"

Her voice wasn't slurred and she wasn't calling him by any of the foul names she usually wielded when "under the influence", and she seemed aware of everything around her.

So…she _probably_ wasn't drunk.

John sighed. "Hello, Harriett."

She winced at his using her full name; when they were younger, he'd always called her 'Harry' or 'Sis'.

He shouldn't have let her in…he knew that. But when she'd asked…well…he couldn't bring himself to say no. She'd looked so hopeful, and besides, she wasn't drunk—something that in itself was an excuse to indulge her, if just for a moment.

John introduced her to Sherlock, who'd looked her up and down with keen interest—but thankfully kept his deductions to himself, for which John was supremely grateful. Then Sherlock had (to John's poorly-disguised shock) offered to make tea, and left them alone.

Harriett had asked him some questions—about his new life, about Sherlock, about how he was getting on, even about his blog (which, apparently, she'd been reading). He'd almost enjoyed the conversation.

But then, he'd asked her a question. Bad move. She went on the defensive, taking it the completely wrong way.

Soon, they were shouting.

"Why are you always butting your head in where it doesn't belong?!" she demanded furiously, voice rising.

He stood. "Because you're my sister and I _worry_ about you!"

She shot to her feet, bringing her eyes level with his. "Well _don't_ worry about me!"

"Please, Harry—"

"Oh, don't try that," she interrupted with a huff. "_Now_ suddenly I'm Harry? Now suddenly I'm your sister again? What happened to treating me like a stranger!"

He opened his mouth to reply, but she was on a roll now.

"That's all I've ever been to you since Dad died, isn't it?! A stranger. A burden! Don't correct me; I see the way you look at me. Suddenly '_Captain_' John Watson doesn't have time for his sister. _'Doctor_' J. H. Watson has more important things to take care of. _Perfect_ John Hamish Watson is embarrassed to be related to _'Harriett'!_"

"Now you know that's not true—"

It happened too quickly for him to register. One moment he was talking, trying to make her see sense—and then his head was jerked to the side as a sharp _slap_ interrupted him and he felt a sudden, stinging pain on his cheek.

He heard her gasp sharply. "Johnny…!" He looked up at her, eyes watering (but, if he was honest with himself, not from the pain of the smack). She pulled back as if shocked, staring at him with wide blue eyes. "Johnny…I—I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—I didn't mean—"

His eyes flicked from her face, to her trembling hand, to her face again, as if he was still trying to register what had happened—then he let out a sharp breath, turned on his heel, and rushed out of the room, brushing past Sherlock on the way out the door. He didn't know how long Sherlock had been standing there, but he didn't care.

He started up the stairs, intent on getting to his room, when he heard something rather remarkable.

"Get. Out."

Was that Sherlock? He sounded so…_angry._ John stopped and listened as Harriett replied, now sobbing openly by the sound of it.

"I didn't mean to, I swear! I'm so, so sorry—"

"Save your excuses for someone who cares," John heard Sherlock practically snarl. Slowly, John again descended the stairs, feeling the need to see this. Was Sherlock…defending him?

He looked out from behind the door, and saw Harriett collapse back onto the couch, weeping into her hands. Sherlock stood over her, fists clenched and trembling.

"Please, please let me talk to him…let me apologize…I can fix this, I swear—"

"I doubt it."

Harriett looked up at Sherlock, cheeks tear-streaked, shoulders shaking, but she didn't say anything, instead only looking at him, blue eyes taking in his expression.

Whatever she saw there decided it. Another tear slipped down her cheek, and she stood, slowly folding her jacket over her arm and picking up her purse. Sherlock didn't move to follow her as she began to make her way out, instead calmly folding his arms and watching her with steady gaze, turning slowly to keep her in his direct line of sight.

She paused in the doorway, looking up at him with wet, sorrowful blue eyes. "I don't want to leave," she whispered. "He needs me."

There was a long moment of silence as Sherlock seemed to process this. Then, he spoke, and his voice was firm. "No, he doesn't."

Harriett caught her breath softly, flinching and looking away as if struck, as Sherlock continued. "He doesn't need you, and I'll wager he never will if you continue down this path."

"But…I'm his big sister."

Sherlock shook his head, and John saw his eyes narrow with anger. "Harriet Watson, you are many things. You are an alcoholic, a coward, an oath breaker, a failure…_maybe_ even a sister. But you are _not_ needed. And the man you call brother is many times the human being you'll ever be, and then some." His voice was shaking now with suppressed rage.

Harriett seemed to realize that she was on dangerous ground, and bowed her head in submission. "You're right," she whispered. "I'm _not_ worthy anymore."

"It took you until now to realize that?" Sherlock spat. "Now get out of this flat or so help me, I'll call the police and have them arrest you."

She looked up at him in shock. "For what?"

"Oh, I'm sure I can think of something." He looked her up and down and narrowed his eyes. "Drinking and driving, harassment, assault, trespassing, daring to stand in _my_ flat for one second longer than is absolutely necessary…would you like me to go on?"

Harriett sucked in a shaking, tear-choked breath and whirled around. John listened to her footsteps as she strode out of the room and opened the door. However, the door didn't close and Sherlock didn't move, so John guessed she wasn't actually gone.

Sure enough, her voice echoed down the hall. "Look…I _am_ really sorry. I mean it. I don't want anything to happen to him."

Sherlock's expression of cold fury did not budge. "Leave."

"…You really care about him, don't you." It wasn't a question, despite the wording.

"We're not a couple; I'm sure he's said that enough times for anyone, even an idiot like you, to get the message."

"No, not like that, I know. I mean…you _care_ about him. I don't know how else to say it, but you know what I mean."

Silence. John didn't think Sherlock would answer, but then: "…Yes."

"Then protect him, okay? I know I can't anymore…I see that now…I should have seen it sooner. So…can I count on you? To never leave his side? Promise me you'll always be his friend, always be there when I can't be."

For a moment, the rage in Sherlock's face slipped, but before John could figure out what had replaced it, the mask was up again—if anything, he looked angrier. "Get. Out." He pronounced every word clearly, leaving no room for error.

"…Thank you."

Maybe Harriett read something else in the act of casting her out, because she sounded genuinely grateful. There was a moment of silence, and then John heard the door slam, and knew she was gone.

After a moment where nothing moved—not even Sherlock—John backed away from the door, moving up the stairs and collapsing onto the end of his bed, dropping his head into his hands and staring at the window. His cheek was still stinging, and the little episode he'd witnessed hadn't done much to lessen the pain of his sister's act. She'd been so strong, growing up. Now, witnessing her weakness was heartbreaking.

Sherlock, however…to see him stand up for John, even against _her_…

John heard the door to his room creak open behind him. Well, speak of the devil.

"She's gone." Sherlock informed him quietly.

John closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. "Thank you."

Sherlock heard the tone behind the sentiment and blinked at John in surprise. He realized, then, that John had seen some of the exchange between his friend and sister, if not all. He also realized that John wasn't just thanking him for coming up to inform him of his sister's leave.

He allowed himself a small smile. "You're welcome."

* * *

_**AN: So, there you have it. That's part five. The next will the the "and one time he made sure of it". Warnings for some Reichenbach references.**_

_**It will be posted shortly.**_

**Sherlock Food For Thought:**

_I found a quote from a fan who calls him/herself CelticaRose1, and found it exceedingly apt:_

_"Steven Moffat was amazed at how sorrowful this fandom is with Sherlock being dead for only two minutes. What he doesn't realize is that we are feeling the sorrow of John who still believes that Sherlock, his Sherlock is dead. We are the fandom who mourns for the living man because he is dead to the one who matters most."_

Wow. Just...wow.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Warning. Warning. Warning. REICHENBACH AHEAD. Not post-Reichenbach. Not pre-Reichenbach. Just - - Reichenbach._**

**_I am sorry, but remember: Five time Sherlock didn't know John was watching and ONE TIME HE MADE SURE OF IT. This was the whole inspiration for this piece!_**

**_And if you think you have it bad reading it? I had to watch this scene over and OVER to get it write - - until my heart was practically BLEEDING. My poor sister couldn't figure out why I was hyperventilating and banging my head against the table. NOT EXAGGERATING._**

* * *

John was on edge as the taxi pulled up to the curb. He was out the door before the car had even really stopped, and the moment his phone beeped it was out of his pocket and pressed against his ear. "Hello."

"John."

There was a note in Sherlock's voice that John definitely did not like.

"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came—"

"No, I'm coming in—" John tried to protest.

"_Just—_do as I ask!" Sherlock interrupted. Was the reception bad or…was Sherlock's voice really trembling? "Please." Sherlock's voice broke.

"W-Where?" John asked, suddenly feeling as if he really shouldn't argue. _Something_ had Sherlock truly, genuinely scared—John could hear it in his voice. Whatever it was…well, John would do whatever Sherlock asked. Because they were friends. Friends didn't need to know why.

"Stop there!"

"Sherlock…" John protested. How could Sherlock see him? Quickly he looked around, but still no Sherlock, nowhere.

"Okay, look up—I'm on the rooftop."

Had Sherlock just said…? Obediently John turned and looked to the roof of St. Bart's.

He froze, and his mouth dropped open.

"Oh, God."

"I—I…I can't come down, so we'll…we'll just have to do it like this."

_What?_ John soundlessly gaped for a moment before he finally found his voice. "What's going on?"

"An apology," came the prompt, resigned answer.

John couldn't tear his eyes away from the figure on the roof—the figure of his friend, starkly outlined against the gray sky. _He's too close to the edge; why is he so close to the edge?_

He listened as Sherlock licked his lips and finally said: "It's…all true."

John actually stepped back in surprise. "_What?_"

"Everything they said about me," Sherlock elaborated. He sounded calm—too calm. "I…_invented_…Moriarty."

John could only stare, stunned beyond words. What…Sherlock…no. _No._ This…this had to be some kind of trick, right? He was bluffing…

"Why are you saying this?" he eventually forced out.

There was a moment of silence and then, voice choked, Sherlock finally replied. "_I'm a fake_."

"Sherlock!"

"The newspapers were right all along," his friend continued, sounding on the verge of tears—which maybe scared John more than the words. "I want you to tell Lestrade…I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson…and Molly…in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you…that I created Moriarty…for my own purposes."

That was…no. This was going _too_ far. John swallowed and said, in a low, firm voice, "M'kay, shut up, Sherlock—_Shut. Up._ The first time we met—the _first_ time _we_ met—you knew all about my _sister_, right?" He had to show him—show him they were wrong.

"No one could be that clever," Sherlock disagreed sorrowfully.

"You could," John replied promptly, voice ringing with conviction.

Sherlock only let out a wheezing laugh. John didn't say anything more, as he waited for Sherlock's reply. This conversation…it was eerie, but John knew, _knew_, that Sherlock was leading up to something…there was something about the foreboding, depressed note in his voice and…_he was just too close to the edge._

Finally, after a long, long moment, Sherlock took a deep breath. "I researched you," he admitted. "Before we met, I discovered—everything that I could, to impress you. … It's a trick—it's just a magic trick."

John was shaking his head before Sherlock's voice had faded over the speakers in his phone. "No; alright—_stop _it, now!" He started forward, determined to put an end to this conversation before—_before what?_

He just wanted to stop it; it was _scaring_ him.

"No!" Sherlock's voice startled him. "Stay _exactly_ where you are! Don't move!"

And there was that note—that _warning_ note. _He's too close to the edge._ John froze, suddenly terrified—of what, he didn't know, or he didn't want to admit. He raised his hands in surrender. "Alright," he relented, trying to put a reassuring, appeasing note in his voice, feeling almost like Sherlock was an animal. _One wrong move…one sudden move…_

Sherlock was reaching out to him, having thrown out an arm when ordering him to stop. "Keep your eyes fixed on me!" he commanded, sounding almost hysterical. "Please—will you do this for me?"

Again, his voice was breaking.

"Do what?" John asked, suddenly fearful of what he might hear next. He felt like…like something huge was about to happen…like everyone else could see it coming, and he was the only one who couldn't…like everything was going to come…crashing down…and he was supposed to stop it…but it was impossible.

"This phone call," Sherlock explained. "It's um…" He seemed to be fishing for the right words. "It's my note."

_No._

"S'what people do, don't they?"

_NO._

"Leave a note."

_No…_

Somewhere, deep down, John knew what was about to happen. He made the connection. But…but he refused to believe it. He _wouldn't_ believe it. He was already shaking his head, already lowering his phone.

Surely it couldn't be true?

"Leave a note when?" he asked. Now, his voice was trembling, just like Sherlock's. And…and he knew, that Sherlock knew. That Sherlock knew…that he knew.

They both knew what would happen next…but…_no._

"Goodbye, John."

"No," John choked, shocked by the note of resignation, of _farewell_ in his friend's voice. "Don't—"

Up above, Sherlock squared his shoulders and dropped his phone.

"No—_SHERLOCK!"_

* * *

**_-tear-_**

**_One more chapter today: part one of 'Five Times John Didn't Know Sherlock Was Watching and One Time He Figured it Out'. There, Christine, is your 'Sherlock's POV' and, in aproximately _**_-counts on fingers-_**_ six or seven chapters, you will get your tackle. Funny how things work out, huh?_**

**_No Food For Thought Required. This whole freaking chapter was more food for thought than my brain can currently handle. -_**_beats head against tabletop-_


	7. Chapter 7

**_AN: This will not help with any cracks that were chiseled into your heart last chapter. Might make 'em bigger. This is the first chapter in the post-Reichenbach segment of this story. Everything will be better in the next chapter - - I promise. Unless it doesn't. In which I won't promise._**

**_Here we go! Part one of 'Five times John didn't know Sherlock was watching and one time he figured it out.'_**

* * *

**1:**

Admittedly, part of Sherlock wanted to break from concealment. Part of him, moved by John's words of despair, wanted to stride out to his friend and tell him his wish was granted.

But he couldn't. After all, what would have been the point of dying? So he stood, completely still, as John's words echoed in his head.

"_You were the best man, and the most human…human being…that I've ever known."_

Ineloquent, but the meaning was clear and, watching the tears gather in John's eyes, Sherlock couldn't begrudge him.

"_No one will ever convince me you told a lie._"

Oh, John. Sherlock had to steady himself with a deep breath. _Stubborn, stubborn John._

"_I was so alone, and I owe you—so much._"

But did he? Did he really? Sherlock wasn't humble; he knew that he'd lifted John from, to put it simply, the depths of despair. He'd been rather proud of it, actually. But John didn't owe him—after all, it was Sherlock that had caused him this pain, right? Sherlock who was willingly watching his friend break down over his grave—and not running out to try and comfort him.

Instead, he was watching John walk away—and remembering what would most likely be the last words John would speak to him directly for a long time.

"_No, please, there's just one more thing, Mate. One more thing; one more miracle."_

John was limping again. Sherlock closed his eyes, not wanting to watch his best friend cut such a sad, pathetic figure.

"_Don't—"_

But he couldn't resist for long. He found himself, against his will, opening his eyes and watching John pause for a moment by the gate, looking back as if hoping—hoping to see something he thought he'd never see again.

_"—Be—"_

And then his only true friend was gone, disappeared, never to know that those words he'd said had actually been heard.

_"—Dead._

_"Would you…? Just for me—just stop it. __**Stop this**__."_

* * *

_**AN: STATUS UPDATE: still sad. T_T**_

_**Thanks for the dart board. I don't usually resort to violence but I might make an exception . . . .**_

_**Will get better. Promise. Will get LOADS better, actually! :D**_

**Sherlock Food For Thought**

_John wasn't at all scared when Sherlock put that gun to his head. In fact, after the initial shock, he agreed with him: "Hostage. Right. That works." Or somethin' like that. I love that trust. Don't you? Friendship is letting someone hold a gun to your head and still loving them, because you know they won't shoot. :)_


	8. Chapter 8

_**AN: I am really so sorry for the last two chapters. They were necessary. Hopefully, by the time we're through, I will have dried your tears and put a smile on your face. Especially you, Arty Diane! I am sorry for reducing you to a teary mess! I didn't mean for that thought to be sad...**_

_**This is part 2 of...well, you know. These titles are really too long to type out every single chapter! This is also why Harriett Watson is in the main characters list.**_

* * *

**2:**

The first—and last—time Sherlock had met John's sister, Harriett, she'd gotten into a fight with her brother, culminating in her slapping him. Sherlock had proceeded to personally kick her out of the flat. Now, as he watched her approach his old flatmate, his eyes narrowed menacingly. He didn't like the look of this.

John was sitting on a bench in the park. When he'd first sat there, it had been clear to Sherlock that he had been waiting for someone. More than that, John had been nervous. He obviously didn't know how this prearranged meeting would go, and was afraid—but also seemed to expect—that it would go awry. Now, Sherlock understood.

As John stood to greet his sister, Sherlock's eyes flicked over her. Not drunk; just gotten off a train from Salisbury, but hasn't stopped at a hotel yet; excited about something but nervous, too—nervous about meeting her brother? No, it's not just that; if it were just that, she'd be more hesitant about approaching and hugging him. Eyeing her hand, which stayed on John's arm even after they'd parted, and the smile she flashed at him, he realized she was nervous about something else. She was tapping…kept clearing her throat…Sherlock analyzed every small habit. He determined that she most definitely had news for John—something exciting. She'd left her suitcase in whatever cab she'd come in, so this was going to be a quick conversation…and it was a big suitcase. _She's stopped for only a quick conversation with her brother, but she's planning on staying awhile. Why?_

Finally, Sherlock figured it out. It was surprising, yes, but…

Harriett "Harry" Joanna Watson was dry. Probably hadn't had a drink in six, seven months. And now she was looking to move to London—and get a job?

Would wonders never cease…

John, naturally, didn't pick up all of this information in a couple onceovers, so his expression was guarded as he greeted her, only allowing her to embrace him instead of really hugging her back. He did seem to note with relief, however, the lack of intoxication.

"Harriett," John greeted her stiffly. "How are you?"

She, in turn, was making visible efforts not to be put out by her brother's formal tone—well, efforts visible to Sherlock, anyway. "I'm doing…good."

_Understatement,_ Sherlock thought critically.

"Well, that's…good."

"Uh-huh."

Oh please! This conversation was half-hearted at best! Sherlock was getting _bored_ just watching it. Please, could Harriett just make her move, give her news, and get on with her life—thus allowing John and, more importantly, _Sherlock_, to do the same? Was it really that hard?

"Can we sit down?" Harriett asked hesitantly, obviously stalling. Sherlock almost groaned out loud, and would have, too—quite rudely—if he wasn't hiding and eavesdropping, with no intention of being discovered.

He watched in exasperation as the two sat down and tentatively exchanged pleasantries. Finally, he got so annoyed that he busted out his mobile.

He almost signed the text 'SH', as per habit, but managed to restrain himself. That would be a _ridiculously_ stupid move, not worthy of Sherlock Holmes.

Seconds later, Harriett's mobile spouted the chorus for the song 'Stronger' by American singer Kelly Clarkson. Sherlock noted the ringtone choice with interest. She laughed nervously and excused herself to check it.

Sherlock didn't need to see the text to know what it said. He watched Harriett's eyes widen and her hands start trembling.

"Harriett?" John asked uncertainly. "You alright? What does it say?"

"N-Nothing," she stammered. Quickly she penned a reply. Sherlock had thought to put his phone on silent beforehand, so it did not give him away when he received a new text.

**WHO IS THIS**

He rolled his eyes. Dull. Couldn't she think of a more imaginative response? And she hadn't even put the question mark on the end! He didn't answer (it wasn't worthy of an answer), instead tucking his mobile back into his pocket and settling down to watch.

Harriett waited a moment for a reply, before sighing and putting her mobile back into her purse, apparently resigned to not getting an answer. Instead she sat down again next to her brother—Sherlock noticed that she was now perched tensely on the edge of the seat rather than comfortably settled—and let out a nervous breath.

"I actually have some news, John."

John frowned at her uncertainly and glanced at her purse, where her phone now lay out of sight—but apparently not out of mind. "Harriett?" This probably was sending so many warning signals through his brain that Sherlock could imagine the sirens wailing already. John had always had an uncanny sense for when things were awry, at best…and going to go catastrophically wrong, at worst—came from being a soldier.

_And my flatmate,_ Sherlock added to himself.

Harriett tried to smile. "I...am moving to London…!" she announced in a tentative attempt at a 'Ta-da!' tone of voice.

_Okay_, Sherlock thought. _It's a start_.

John blinked, looking startled and almost skeptical. "You're…moving to London," he repeated.

"Uh-huh. And getting a job."

Now John's expression was somewhere between incredulity and a shock level of 4/10 (Sherlock had taken it upon himself to classify the different levels of surprise John displayed, one day when he was bored. A 1/10 was about the shock level of everyday revelations, such as being out of milk, a 5/10 would be a "Sherlock there's a finger in my soup!", and a 10/10 would be reserved for Sherlock either displaying some kind of tender emotion or acting even less human than usual. Only once had John displayed anything higher—a 17/10, Sherlock decided, on the day of his fake suicide). "You're…getting a job? Harry—that's great! But…"

His question was clear: _Why?_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Goodness, just get to the point, woman!_

Thankfully, Harriett did. She smiled and said, in a more confident tone, "I've changed, John. I swear, I haven't had a drink in at least half a year. I'm done."

John's shock level rose to—a 9/10? Wow. Sherlock was impressed that Harry had managed to prompt such a high number; usually only Sherlock was capable of that. "You—?! So long? Why didn't you tell me before?! That's brilliant!"

"I know!" she practically squealed, pulling her brother into another hug. This time, John actually hugged her back. When Harry pulled away, her eyes were sparkling and she was grinning like a simpering idiot (in Sherlock's opinion). "I wanted to surprise you. Uh…surprise!"

And John actually cracked a smile at that. It was one of very few Sherlock had seen since the Incident (he was starting to call it the Fall, in his head—capital 'F').

"So, I'm moving to London to be nearer to you," Harriett explained further. "I'm going to find a good job and a place to stay somewhere close—probably a motel for now, or—"

"No," John interrupted, voice suddenly firm. "You can come stay in the flat with me."

Harriett's animated monologue stuttered to a halt as her eyes widened in shock that Sherlock was also feeling—though to a lesser degree. While hers was (quite obviously) a startled, fearful kind of shock, Sherlock's was more pleasant. This was indeed a lovely surprise, after all. And it worked out perfectly. Sherlock had been distinctly annoyed that John couldn't get over him enough to either leave the flat or find a new flatmate, but at the same time he knew it would complicate matters considerably if Sherlock returned from the dead to find his flat otherwise occupied. Now, someone close to John was taking up residence—a sister. That would make matters easier to deal with.

But Sherlock felt an uncomfortable niggling at his mind as he thought of all of his stuff. Would it finally be moved? He didn't know how he felt about that.

"Are…you sure?" Harriett asked uncertainly. "I thought…"

"We'll work it out," John assured her with another smile (two in several minutes—a record. Sherlock's respect for Harriett was growing). John's smile fell, however, as he appeared to have a thought. "Just…you can't…not…_his_ room. You can have my room, and _I'll_ sleep in his room. I don't…I don't want anything…"

He didn't finish his sentence.

"I understand." Harriett's excited attitude disappeared abruptly and Sherlock watched, impressed, as she automatically reverted to 'comforting older sister mode'. She wrapped an arm around John's shoulders and scooted closer, allowing his head to rest on her shoulder and holding his hand. "I felt the same way when Dad died—didn't want to let anyone touch anything, in case…well, you know."

"I keep thinking he'll come back," John whispered—a thought Sherlock knew he'd never confided with anybody, even Mrs. Hudson. Again, Sherlock's regard for Harriett went up a couple notches.

"You'll have to let go eventually, Johnny," Harriet pointed out softly, gently massaging her younger brother's hand with her thumb.

"…But not yet," John replied, in a voice equally soft.

Harriett didn't answer—only nodded in understanding and rested her chin lightly on John's head. Sherlock watched them for several long moments, duly impressed despite himself. He could see now, why John never fully gave up on his sister. He could see them, as young children—little John looking up to "Harry", little Harriett protecting "Johnny". A bond like that can't be _completely_ severed, as this little show was proving.

Eventually, Harriett shifted, signaling the end of the cuddle session. "Well…let's deal with that hurdle when we reach it," she decided with forced cheeriness that Sherlock could see right through. "If I'm going to move into your flat, there's work to be done right now."

"Right," John agreed, surreptitiously wiping his eyes. Harry didn't comment, pretending not to notice as she fiddled with her bag. She held her phone for a second, staring at what was no doubt the text Sherlock had sent her earlier:

**DULL. Just tell him already; this is getting annoying to watch.**

She looked up and around, searching the crowds, streets, and bushes. Naturally, she didn't see Sherlock, but something in her gaze conveyed a _knowledge_. Sherlock was forced to admit that, when off her drink and not emotionally unstable, Harriett Watson was almost as much a force to be reckoned with as her brother; he was seeing only signs of it now, but it was a clear, unmistakable deduction.

Finally, she turned back to John. "You won't regret this; I promise!" she vowed, taking his hand in a familiar, comfortable way that seemed to make John a degree happier, and leading him back to her waiting cab. "No more drinking problems for me—and now you'll be there to help me when I'm tempted! This is going to be perfect!"

John managed another smile (Three?! This was mind-boggling!) and squeezed her hand tighter. "Just like old times?" he asked in a pleased, knowing tone.

"Uh-huh!" Harriett giggled and pocketed her phone carelessly, as if forgetting about the mystery text. "I know it won't be the same as sharing with a deranged sociopath, but I'll try to be interesting!"

And at this—John Watson, for the first time in what was almost a year, giggled.

This was almost—too much! John…laughing? Three smiles and a giggle!

"Harriett Watson," Sherlock murmured with an admiring grin he usually saved for the especially clever criminal masterminds or the moments when John did something particularly astounding. "I have underestimated you."

John didn't notice, as Harriett followed him into the cab, that Harry pulled her mobile phone out of her pocket and again furtively scanned the area. But Sherlock did notice. And several moments later, just as the cab was pulling away from the curb, his mobile registered a new text.

Sherlock opened it—and stared at the words, unbelieving.

**Come back soon. I don't know why you're choosing to stay hidden, but he needs you. ~Harry~**

After a heartbeat of stunned silence, Sherlock threw back his head and laughed.

_Harriett Watson, you are __**indeed**__ a force to be reckoned with. Good show._

* * *

**_AN: I hope you guys didn't have your hearts too set on hating Harry, thanks to that other chapter._**

**_I'm sorry, I don't have it in me for a Food For Thought, today._**


	9. Chapter 9

**_AN: Bit of fluff for you. Sorry for the delay; Sunday generally isn't a good day for me to post and this week, I ran outta luck on Monday._**

**_This is part three of...well, you know._**

* * *

**3:**

Ugh. Scrubs were _not_ comfortable.

Sherlock repressed the urge to scratch; after all, a nurse would be comfortable in scrubs, and so he must act as though he, too, didn't find fault with them. Still, he wished for his coat. Or a suit. Or a sheet. Or…anything else.

As it was, he had to make do with what he had; after all, it'd be hard to pass as a nurse while wearing a suit. Or a sheet, for that matter. Even with his disguise (colored contacts, hair dyed a dirty blondish color, an expression of actual empathy and feeling on his face), he felt exposed, walking through the halls of the hospital.

At least it wasn't St. Bart's. Then he'd be recognized for sure.

As it was, he reached John's room unnoticed by anyone else, though he'd passed several people in the halls. He stopped just inside the doorway, watching, not making a sound.

John wasn't too seriously injured—he was too good (in all senses of the word) to let himself get disabled when Harriett was in danger.

Here's how it'd gone: An old shadow from Harry's past—a deranged boyfriend who she'd dumped after she realized he was psychotic—had returned for revenge. John had gotten in the way. Now, he was in the hospital, with a severe concussion, a jagged gash down his face, and several broken ribs. But then, this is where the oft-used phrase, "You should see the other guy," comes in. The old boyfriend was in intensive care.

No one hurts Harriett and gets away with it when her brother's involved. Harriett had gotten off with only some bruising around her neck—nasty business—and a very heavy conscience. Sherlock wouldn't feel guilty if he were her—John liked the danger, after all. But she couldn't see past the bandages, the heart monitor, and the fact that she'd gotten off so lightly because her little brother had protected her.

Sherlock moved deeper into the room, slowly taking a seat next to John's bed. John was sleeping—not sedated—and Sherlock knew that this was a rare moment when he could be with John, without worrying about blowing his cover, without hiding. He could almost pretend he wasn't going to run the minute it looked like John would wake up.

Sherlock couldn't say for sure how long he sat there, watching his friend dream.

Then the dreams took a turn.

Sherlock could name the exact moment when he realized something was wrong. The heart monitor began to pick up.

**Beep…Beep…Beep…Beep…Beep…**

Sherlock looked up in surprise, staring at the monitor uncomprehendingly. Then he realized its meaning and immediately switched his gaze to John's face.

**Beep…Beep…Beep, Beep, Beep,**

John's whole body was going rigid, his eyes darting under his lids, his breath shortening, coming quicker and shallower.

_Nightmare,_ Sherlock realized in horror.

**Beep, Beep, BeepBeepBeep**—

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"No…" John mumbled under his breath, still caught in the clutches of terrifying fantasy. "No…Sherlock…no."

He was dreaming about Sherlock. A nightmare—about Sherlock? _The Fall,_ Sherlock realized. _Not good._

**BeepBeepBeepBeepBeep—**

"John!" Sherlock shouted, gripping the edges of the bed, knuckles white. "Wake up! John, wake up, I'm okay—see? I'm okay!"

John didn't wake up. "Sherlock…Sher…No…_No!_"

"_John!"_ Sherlock yelled. It did no good. Then, on impulse, he grabbed the other man's hand.

John's muttering stuttered to a stop as he felt the pressure on his hand—a familiar sort of pressure. He instinctively squeezed back, anchoring himself to this piece of reality, this lifeline. Slowly, gradually, he relaxed.

**Beep…Beep…Beep…**

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. "John," he said, softer, gentler. "It's going to be okay. I promise. I promise, I'm okay." Absently, he rubbed his thumb across John's hand, trying to soothe him.

His words took effect, too. John seemed, subconsciously, to hear and understand. He left the nightmares behind, and Sherlock watched him sink back into the embrace of good dreams.

"I promise," he whispered again.

* * *

**_Yeah...bit of fluff. Not ashamed._**

**Sherlock Food For Thought:**

What "reliable" source informed Sherlock that he didn't have a heart? It makes me sad just to think about it - - especially when I posed the question to my friend and she answered in a dark, accusing voice: "_Mycroft._"


	10. Chapter 10

_**AN: There appears to be a lot of confusion over the last chapter. I know I said it was an ex-**_**boy****_friend, but please guys, don't think I don't know the show's canon. I know that show inside and out; I know Harry's gay. I know she had a wife named Clara, and they were divorced. I don't mean to sound confrontational, but it wasn't a mistake on my part. This was written with the intention of the 'ex-boyfriend' being back from before Harry came 'out of the closet', so to speak. After all, just 'cause she's gay now doesn't mean she's been gay her whole life. Thankfully, some people picked up on that. THANK you._**

**_Now that I've got that out of the way, here's your next chapter. It's a bit longer than most of the previous ones (I got a little carried away) but I hope you like it! This is part four of...well, you know the drill._**

**_There will be two...no...three chapters after this._**

* * *

**4:**

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

Sebastian Moran had been lurking in the same alley for two hours, still and silent as a statue, watching the masses. Now, as the sun began to set and the crowds to thin, suddenly, he was moving into action, quickly and methodically pulling out metal pieces and setting them up with practiced hands. Sherlock watched as a gun swiftly formed, and Moran set it on a tripod.

Something had prompted the sudden change.

But what?

What was his game?

He was staring at something, something out in the main road. Sherlock cursed himself for picking what had, at the time, seemed a good vantage point, when he saw now that it was limiting in one key factor: he couldn't see the street. So he couldn't see what had provoked Moran's sudden behavior.

He could deduce a little, at least.

Sebastian Moran was a sniper—he'd been Moriarty's right-hand man. His furtive behavior, coupled with the gun…most likely some kind of assassination. So his target was appearing within sight. So far, so obvious.

But that still left several large gaps to be filled: the target, Moran's motive, and how to stop him. Sherlock couldn't just attack him—it'd cause a scene, break his cover, draw attention. _No, can't do that, then._

Sherlock was crouched in a window above Moran. Taking a calculated risk (because though he was very well disguised, he was sure Moran could identify him upon seeing him), he carefully, silently crawled out of the window and began to climb up the wall.

Moran did not notice, intent as he was on his prey.

Several moments later, Sherlock was on the rooftop, striding quickly to the precipice and looking over the edge into the street below, trying to single out the target.

Only a few people were about. Sherlock scanned first those in the immediate area, and began to move out.

A woman pushing a stroller. She walked right by the alley with no repercussions.

A man getting into a car. Again, no shot rang out before he closed the door

Several people underwent Sherlock's scrutiny before he heard a voice, getting steadily louder as, presumably, whoever it was drew closer.

"Yeah, I'm on my way back right now…No, I'm not catching a cab—I'm only a couple blocks away! No need to worry."

Sherlock's heart clenched.

"I also got the milk and that coffee you wanted…wait, you _what_? Wow…Sorry, I know…it's just that, it's been a year and a half since you moved in, but I think I still need to get used to someone else getting the milk…yeah, it's fine…I'll just give it to Mrs. Hudson…speaking of which, how is she? How is she coping?"

John.

"Good, that's good. I got her some tea, too…let me guess, you already thought of that…uh huh…well, we'll just have extra then. What _didn't_ you get?" A moment of silence, and John laughed. "Too bad; would've been useful!"

_John._

And it became _exceedingly_ clear who Moran's target was.

After all, could it be a coincidence that Moran was setting up right as John was getting home from his job and, judging from his conversation on the phone, shopping?

Suddenly, Sherlock didn't care what kind of scene he would cause. John was going to pass by that alley in seconds, and if Sherlock didn't act, then John would _really_ die—no coming back.

Moran didn't know what hit him. One moment his finger was tightening on the trigger—and then next something slammed into him from above. His flailing arm knocked over the gun—and set it off. It fired randomly with an ear-splitting crack that sent everyone on the streets into a panic.

As Sherlock knocked Moran to the ground, it occurred to him that he really hoped that bullet hadn't hit anyone.

The two went tumbling, the gun clattering across the narrow space. Moran immediately went into defense mode, lashing out with his foot and shoving Sherlock off of him. Sherlock, though expecting the move, was taken aback by the astounding strength of the ex-military sniper and sent skittering across the cement with a grunt of surprise and pain. At the same time, Moran lunged—for the gun.

Sherlock leapt up—only to feel something hard and cold press against his Adam's apple, pushing him down again.

"You should've minded your own business, Shirley Locks," Moran growled, cocking the gun. "And stayed out of mine."

Sherlock closed his eyes, realizing despondently that this time, he would die for real. _Sorry, John. Guess I'm not coming back._

Moran's finger tightened on the trigger.

"Run!"

Startled, Sherlock's eyes flew open, to be met with an extraordinary sight: Moran, tumbling to the ground, John Watson on top of him—having tackled him.

"John…?" Sherlock mumbled in a daze, startled by the sudden shift from 'certain death' to 'one step behind'. Where had John come from?

He had saved his life.

Again.

But the victory didn't last long—with an angry shout and a great _heave_, Moran managed to displace John enough to get them rolling. Sherlock watched, still mildly stunned, as the two grappled for control, flipping over and over, shoving and thrashing about.

Finally, a clear advantage was taken—by Moran. Sherlock was snapped out of his daze as he registered that Moran had just managed to force John onto his back, slamming him violently against the cement. "_Don't_ interfere," Moran growled darkly at the doctor.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, staggering to his feet.

John gasped and lashed out with his knee, aiming for Moran's groin. Unfortunately, Moran was able to dodge it without losing his grip.

However, the move brought Moran's face momentarily into the light, and for some reason, John seemed to recognize it.

"_You!"_ he shouted angrily, lurching up and throwing a shocked Moran off of him. "_You_ tried to kill Mrs. Hudson!"

_What?!_

Moran had gone after Mrs. Hudson? _And_ John? Did he _have _a _death_ wish?!

Moran glowered sinisterly at John for a moment, slowly wiping blood from the corner of his mouth with his wrist. Sherlock watched in interest as John and Moran seemed to have some kind of staring contest, their gazes locked. Moran looked menacing, dark, like a cornered rat. John, meanwhile, looked furious.

Then, suddenly, Moran shot from his position huddled at the base of the wall, going for the gun.

"No!" Sherlock and John both cried at the same time. Sherlock moved before he'd even thought about it, diving to the ground and snatching the gun from the cement just as Moran made a dive for it. Moran backpedaled instantly, fleeing down the alleyway, as Sherlock recovered from his dive and aimed almost without thinking.

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

Three gunshots, but Sherlock knew instantly that none would hit their target. Sherlock was a crack shot, but the sun had set too fast over the fight, and suddenly he couldn't see anything down that way. It was as if darkness had fallen quicker than usual, without him noticing.

Before he could even stand, the gun was wrenched from his hands. Sherlock was quick, so it didn't take him more than a millisecond of confusion to realize—John.

John was now sprinting after Moran, having grabbed the gun from Sherlock on his way past.

"No," Sherlock gasped, lurching to his feet. "John!"

And then he, too, shot down the alley, following the sounds of running footsteps and gunfire.

And then the footsteps ceased, silent as the echo of one final shot rang through the air.

_Pleasenopleasenopleasenopleasenopleaseno,_ Sherlock prayed. He didn't know who the prayer was going to, since he didn't properly believe in any God, but he hoped that if there was anyone—_anyone_—out there who could hear his wish, they'd grant it. _Please let him be alright._

However:

"You fool. Didn't think I'd carry an extra gun? I _live_ for guns."

A clicking sound. Sherlock recognized it for what it was.

"Guess I get to kill you after all."

Sherlock rounded a corner—to see John leaning heavily against a wall, clutching his left arm and staring down the barrel of a gun.

Yup. It appeared that no one had heard Sherlock's wish. Brilliant. The one time he felt it worth praying—nothing answers.

"Who. Are. You." John forced out through gritted teeth.

Moran chuckled. "Let's just say I'm you. I'm just like you."

"I don't kill innocent people."

"But you're still me. We both lost someone, two years ago. I lost my boss to a gun. You lost yours to…gravity."

"Don't."

"Both, suicides."

"Shut up."

"Both, psychopaths who could care less."

"Shut up!"

Moran grinned. "But we care, don't we? Yes, John. That's why you're just barely getting over him. And that's why I still haven't." His finger tightened on the trigger. "That's why I'm continuing his work."

"I am nothing like you," John forced out through gritted teeth—gritted against the anger or the pain, Sherlock couldn't decide. Each was equally likely. Maybe it was both.

How was he supposed to stop this? One wrong move, and John got a bullet between the eyes—or somewhere more painful.

Then Sherlock had a thought. He pulled out his mobile.

**John needs help.  
SH**

**Where? ~Harry~**

**Track his mobile. His password is 'observe'. Quick; the bad guy has a gun.  
SH**

Risky signing them, but Harriett had to know that it was serious. Sherlock could break into the flat later and delete them from her mobile if he really had to.

**On my way; calling Lestrade too. ~Harry~**

**Good.  
SH**

Now that help was on the way, it was time to act, before Moran decided that his and John's conversation was over and it was time to pull the trigger. As Sherlock had decided before, no obvious action could be taken, lest John die that night, but Sherlock had to make sure that help arrived in time. So—distraction.

He silently backed up several paces—and then started running again, swerving around the corner only to stop cold at the sight of John and Moran's face-off. His eyes flicked between Moran, John, and the gun, as if seeing them for the first time.

"Well hello, Shirley," Moran grinned in dark delight. "Speak of the devil. You're just in time."

Never had Sherlock been so glad for that stupid nickname of Moran's (in fact, usually, he hated it). If Moran had called him 'Sherlock' or 'Holmes' or 'Mr. Holmes' or any other of the recognizable names his enemies usually used, John would've known it was him. As it was, all John saw was the blonde man he'd previously rescued from this sniper. A man with a girl's name.

"Now, let's try and think this through," Sherlock tried in an appeasing tone, knowing perfectly well that Moran wouldn't listen. "He's not part of this, Moran. This is between you and me."

"Is it?" Moran hissed in rage. "It isn't! You took Jim from me—"

"_He_ took himself from you," Sherlock interrupted, knowing the dangers of making Moran angrier but knowing that at this point, anything he said would make him mad. "It was a suicide, Moran—only, unlike the supposed suicide of Sherlock Holmes, it wasn't forced upon him. I didn't threaten Moriarty into sticking that gun in his mouth. In fact—I wanted him alive."

"You're lying," Moran hissed. "You shot him."

"Really? Look at the facts, Moran."

"No!"

"You may have considered yourself his friend, but he didn't consider himself yours."

"Liar!"

"You know that's not true."

Moran was now trembling with fury, and Sherlock could see an insanity in his dark eyes. Maybe, a _long_ time ago, Sebastian Moran had been a respectable soldier. Maybe, a shorter time ago, he'd been a perfectly sane assassin. But with the death of his boss, he'd been shoved over an edge no one had known existed.

And he still had a gun in his capable hands.

He seemed to realize this now, and quickly swung it around to Sherlock, intent obvious.

But it was a mistake.

John had watched the conversation in puzzlement and alarm, realizing first that he'd stumbled upon something far more complicated than a mugger attacking an innocent man, then feeling a shock at the mention of Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty, then realizing that, whoever this blonde man was, he was playing for time.

Time for John to escape.

So John tensed, watching Moran, noting the exact point when his attention was completely grabbed by this strange blonde man. And then, when the gun swung away—Bingo.

But John didn't run. He shifted his weight just so, and threw himself at Moran, tackling him to the ground and knocking the gun from his hand. Sherlock, having seen it before it'd happened, lunged forward and scooped up the weapon. Before Moran could properly realize what had just happened, he found the gun aimed at his nose and John sitting on top of him.

"Stay. Down." Sherlock growled.

But Moran was crazy—insane, even—and the gun only startled him for a moment. Slowly, he reached behind himself, feeling through a pocket. Sherlock cocked the gun—a clear warning—but Moran didn't cease movement.

John saw the silver flash and instinctively recoiled, but the knife that had appeared in Moran's hand wasn't aimed at him. With lightning fast instincts, John took in the target, the angle of the knife—and lunged. "Move!" he shouted, shoving Sherlock out of the way.

Sherlock staggered into the wall—but barely noticed the dull ache as he watched the knife flash along its previous route.

John fell to the ground with a cry.

For Sherlock, it was instinct.

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

Three more gunshots split the air—but this time, all three hit their target. Moran slumped to the ground with a hideous moan—not dead, but not going anywhere.

Maybe he'd bleed out.

Sherlock hoped so.

Sherlock stood there a moment, the gun smoking in his hand, stunned. Two men were lying bleeding in front of him, and for once he felt that maybe he'd like a shock blanket.

_Plip_. A raindrop struck the cement.

_Plip. Plip. Plip._

At the same time, Sherlock could make out sirens in the distance. Help was on the way. And, he realized, he needed to get _out_ of the way. He couldn't be here when the police and ambulance showed up.

He watched from the shadows as the rain began to fall in earnest just as the authorities arrived. Harriett was at her brother's side immediately, and Lestrade was quickly able to identify Moran as, apparently, the man who'd attacked Mrs. Hudson and himself about a week back. Sherlock's eyes narrowed at this information, and once again he sent out the earnest prayer that Moran would bleed out. Now that the ambulance was here, this probably wouldn't happen, but he could hope.

John was loaded into one of the two ambulances and Harriett climbed in with him. Then they were out of Sherlock's sight.

**Thank you. ~Harry~**

**How is he?  
SH**

**None of the wounds are fatal or impairing. They think he'll be good as new, eventually. ~Harry~**

**Thank you.  
SH**

* * *

**_Yay!_**

**_Okay, um, food for thought, food for thought..._**

**_Nah, can't think of any. Oh well._**


	11. Chapter 11

_**AN: So, I lasped again - - three whole days without posting! In my defense, school just ended, which, in a roundabout way that won't make sense to most of you, means that I will have more free time but less posting time. So, due to this and to make up for my lapse, I shall now give ye all...TWO chapters! Dun Dun DUUNNNNN!**_

_**This is part five.**_

* * *

**5:**

Sometimes life is funny. Very funny. Does someone up there, pulling the strings, have a really sick sense of humor?

John had asked that question of Harriett one quiet evening, sitting in the park where Sherlock could easily hide within earshot. Harriett had been confused, and John hadn't explained the sudden, seemingly random thought. Sherlock had tried to deduce the meaning behind it, but he had nothing to go on save that John had been unusually withdrawn for several hours before the not-quite-offhand comment, and stayed that way the rest of the night. So, he was probably thinking in some way about Sherlock—but why 'funny'? Why that word? What about their situation suggested a 'sick sense of humor'?

Sherlock found out when John went to a nearby café to meet Lestrade, and found not only the gray-haired DI, but also Sally Donovan.

No one who didn't know John would have noticed it, but Sherlock could see the walls come up the moment John laid eyes on the woman.

"Why is she here?"

John was making a visible (to Sherlock, leastways) effort to be civil, keeping his tone carefully controlled and only politely interested, but there was accusation in his eyes when he caught Lestrade's gaze. Lestrade, apparently, saw it as clearly as Sherlock had, because he had the grace to look uncomfortable and the slightest bit apologetic as he gave his reply:

"Just back from a case; I was, uh, dropping her off before you called."

"Anderson couldn't make it today," Donovan cut in, elaborating on what Lestrade was saying, "and I don't have fare for a cab home."

"Ah." John fidgeted uneasily. "Right."

"So, what did you call me for?"

"Well…" John's eyes flicked again to Donovan and his lips twisted in a troubled quirk. "Actually, I was rather hoping you'd come alone, Lestrade…I don't really…I'm sorry, Donovan; it's just that…well…"

"Meaning that it's about _Him_," Donovan observed, hands on hips.

John was immediately on the defensive. "Does not!"

Donovan rolled her eyes and folded her arms. "Does too. You don't think I've noticed how you've been avoiding me for the past two and a half years?" She released her defiant posture in favor of putting a hand on John's arm and pulling a sincere expression. "I'm sorry, though."

Sherlock's gaze darkened as he eyed the place where her fingers brushed his friend's jumper, and he felt no small amount of satisfaction when John shrugged her hand off.

She wasn't deterred, however. "Really, I am. I know it's hard for you. To lose him, I mean."

John met her gaze, eyes steady. "Thank you, but I don't need pity, Donovan; especially not from you."

"It's not shameful," Donovan protested. "And I mean it. I'm sorry."

John didn't say anything, just looked away, into the distance. From his vantage point, Sherlock could see that John's eyes were glittering just a bit too brightly, and his posture was just a little too stiff, his face just a little too blank.

"And you'll remember," Donovan continued, "that I _did_ try to warn you."

John turned on her so fast that all watching (except Sherlock, of course) blinked and flinched with the sudden feeling of whiplash. "Pardon?" he asked, his voice icy and hostile, despite the word that was generally equated with courtesy.

Donovan quailed for a second, but it was not in her nature to back down from a threat, and she managed to steel herself and resist the impulse to take a step back, instead setting her jaw and raising her chin defiantly. "I did," she insisted. "At the very beginning. I _told_ you that you were better off staying away from…_that man._"

"'That man'?" John repeated with incredulously fury. "'That man'?! His name, if _you'll_ remember, was _Sherlock Holmes_, and 'that man', as you call him, was a better man—a better _human being_—that you've ever been and probably ever will be."

Donovan bristled at the insult, and all traces of any goodwill she may have had vanished. "That _Freak_ was a psychopath," she spat. "This world's better without him."

John rolled his eyes. "And sometimes I wonder why he wasted his time insulting Anderson when _you _were in the vicinity," he shot back. "If Anderson lowers the IQ of the whole street, then you're affecting the whole _city._ Would you just shut up? If you did, maybe you'd have heard when he said he was a _sociopath_, not a _psychopath_."

Sherlock grinned to himself. He was rather enjoying this.

"Yeah? Well at least I'm not _dead_. At least I haven't committed _suicide_ and left my _ only friend_ alone. At least I tried to say 'sorry'!"

"You may be sorry, but I'm not," John retorted.

This seemed to throw her for a loop. "What?"

"I'm not sorry," John repeated. "You know why? Because Sherlock Holmes was a great man, and Sherlock Holmes was a _good_ man. You couldn't see past the deducing and his…weirdness…but if you had, you would've seen a real hero, and a real friend. I'm not sorry I knew him, and I'm not sorry that he's dead, because he lived a good life. And I don't _need_ your pity, or your insults, or your disrespect, because I don't care what the bloody newspapers say, Donovan."

Donovan and Lestrade stared at him with huge eyes for a few good, long seconds before Donovan finally seemed able to collect herself.

"You're not sorry? Well, you should be. He _ruined _you. You're a doctor, and a soldier, and a good man, and he picked you up, dragged you along on his roller coaster adrenaline-junkie type life, and then dumped you in the gutter. You didn't have to watch it happen like we did, _Doctor Watson_. After he jumped, you _lost yourself._ You were _addicted_, Doctor, and you went through withdrawals. You're fine now, thanks to your sister and your friends. But it's taken you two and a half years of rehab to get over him, and now you act like it was nothing. But _it wasn't_. And us? We can only shake our heads, because _we warned you._"

John stood statue-still, face set in stone, through this whole monologue, but Sherlock could name the exact moment when the old soldier snapped. "You _warned_ me?!" he demanded furiously. "Yeah, you sure did, didn't you? I remember your exact words, Sergeant Donovan. 'Someday, we're going to be standing around a body, and he'll be the one who put it there'. Well, I suppose you're happy now, aren't you? Happy that you were right. Because you _were_ right. But not in the way you expected, huh?"

Donovan bit her lip and looked down, unable to meet John's eyes in the face of this new accusation.

"You were convinced that he was nothing but an adrenaline-seeking psychopath. That he was a devil in a Belstaff coat. But guess what? We all stood around that body, and all I could think was that you were right. He'd finally put a body in front of us—all because _a psychopath got bored._ Those were your exact words. _Psychopaths get bored._"

John drew a deep, shuddering breath, but it did nothing to calm him.

"A psychopath got bored alright. And he played you like Sherlock's violin, Donovan. Did it ever occur to you that it's partly your fault?"

Donovan's eyes went wide with horror.

"You and Anderson fell for Moriarty's trick. You stepped right into his trap, took the bait like a starving fish. He planned everything, and he knew you would only help him."

Finally, Donovan found her voice. "That's not true!" she burst out, her tone almost pleading. "I'm innocent!"

John shook his head. "You're not. Actually…" His eyes darkened. "None of us are. We're all to blame."

"_He_ jumped," Donovan insisted.

"_We_ drove him to it," John argued sadly. "We—all of us—we're his friends. Well…to an extent, in your case. But Lestrade—you were like a father to him, and you led the investigation against him. Donovan, you and Anderson…well. And I…I should have realized. I should have _stopped him_. But all of us were played by Moriarty. And all of us are paying the price now, _even_ now, two and a half years later."

John looked Donovan directly in the eyes. "You did warn me, Donovan, and I know you honestly thought you were doing the right thing, but I will not stand for your insulting him when he is the only one here who is completely innocent. He was a good, good man, even if you never saw it. And you'll never be able to take back those words, even if you want to…but I will give you this: you were right."

John turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving everyone—even Sherlock—too stunned to move.

Donovan had tears in her eyes. "But…" was all she could say. "But…"

Lestrade shook his head. "You shouldn't have brought _Him_ up," he rebuked the woman gently. "And you know better than to talk about Him like that."

Donovan bit her lip and raised a trembling hand to her mouth. "I never even thought of it like that," she whispered. "It…really is our fault, isn't it?"

Lestrade didn't protest—only looked at her sadly. "John's right," he finally admitted. "Sherlock was a good man, Donovan. I know you never saw it like that…but he was."

Donovan nodded, closing her eyes and obviously on the verge of crying. "I…I swear, I didn't mean harm."

Lestrade shook his head. "We all say the same thing," he stated. "And it's two and a half years too late. For all of us."

Sherlock sat there for a long time after the two had left, contemplating what he had witnessed.

**Is John okay?  
SH**

**He's quiet and won't talk to me. Do you know why? ~Harry~**

**Had a fight with Donovan.  
SH**

**…About you? ~Harry~**

**Should have known. ~Harry~**

**He really misses you. ~Harry~**

**When are you coming back? ~Harry~**

**He blames himself. I can't get through to him. ~Harry~**

**I'm sorry.  
SH**

* * *

_**AN: I know, really beating up on Donovan and poor John...well, I guess I gave him an outlet? Aw, poor baby...**_

_**Don't worry, Johnny. Sherlock will be back. Very soon.**_

_**Cue next chapter.**_


	12. Chapter 12

_**AN: Sorry for the cliffhanger. Kind of. Not really.**_

* * *

_+1: One Time John Figured It Out_

Sherlock had been looking forward to this day for the longest time, but now that it was here, within reach…well, suddenly, every single worry that could possibly occur to him was suddenly making itself known.

What if John didn't accept him?

What if John felt too betrayed, or hated him?

What if John just didn't believe he was real?

What if John punched him?

Granted, he probably deserved to be punched.

But, the biggest question was: What if John _did_ accept him? _Didn't_ feel betrayed, or hate him? _Did_ believe he was real?

_Well_, Sherlock thought with a wry chuckle, _he'll probably still punch me._

But seriously, Sherlock didn't know what he was going to do if all of his fears proved unfounded and he was allowed to live a normal (by his standards) life once again. It couldn't just go back to how it had been before, after all, could it? Things had changed too drastically.

Well, he could cross that hurdle when he reached it. Right now, he had to get past the actual revelation, hopefully without a broken nose.

And, with that thought, he was back at square one.

**Are you going to do it? ~Harry~**

**Of course.  
SH**

**You're scared. ~Harry~**

**Am not.  
SH**

**Yes you are. ~Harry~**

**…  
SH**

Sherlock sighed. Harriett had been his correspondent for only a year, and somehow, she'd come to know him just as well as John. Was it something about the Watson family, or were those two just special? Either way, she'd only ever been face-to-face with him once before, but could still tell him exactly what was going through his mind. Was he really that easy to read?

**Just do it. ~Harry~**

**He's going to punch me.  
SH**

**…Okay, maybe. But then he'll hug you. He really does want you back. ~Harry~**

**Comforting.  
SH**

It was a text dripping with sarcasm, but interestingly enough, Sherlock actually did find it comforting, to a degree. At least there was the reassurance that there was a very high probability that John wouldn't reject him.

**He asked me yesterday if it's normal to still not quite believe that someone is dead, three years after the fact. He may not realize it, but he's waiting for you. You gonna keep him waiting for one second longer than you absolutely have to? ~Harry~**

**I guess…I ****_am_**** scared.  
SH**

**Don't go telling anybody.  
SH**

**The first step to conquering a fear is admitting to it. ~Harry~**

**You know, when you aren't intoxicated, you're actually quite wise.  
SH**

**Hey! ~Harry~**

**Just an observation. It was a compliment.  
SH**

**Get out there and say hello, man. Before I lose my patience and just tell him. ~Harry~**

**You wouldn't dare.  
SH**

**I would. ~Harry~**

Sherlock groaned and snapped his phone shut. He knew Harry as well as she knew him, and he was positive she would make good on her threat. _Curses._

He stood uncertainly on the other side of the street, staring at the shiny black door to 221b, the golden figures glinting in the gray sunlight, taunting him.

**Question. ~Harry~**

**Yes?  
SH**

**Do you still wear that very long, very dramatic, dark coat like you used to? ~Harry~**

**…Yes. On occasion.  
SH**

**You wearing it right now? ~Harry~**

**Yes.  
SH**

**I think I can see you from the window. ~Harry~**

**Is John with you?  
SH**

**Yes. Wait, no. He's just leaving…? ~Harry~**

Even as Sherlock read this text, the door to 221b swung open and John H. Watson stepped out onto the street, looking left and right with a business-like air about him. He didn't hail a cab, but began walking down the street with a purpose obviously in mind.

**Where is he going?  
SH**

**He wouldn't say. I'm worried. ~Harry~**

**I'm going to follow him.  
SH**

**Obviously. Good luck. ~Harry~**

**I don't need luck.  
SH**

**You will. ~Harry~**

**…Thank you.  
SH**

Sherlock tucked his mobile in his pocket and focused solely on the small form of his friend bobbing through the crowd. He followed the short man down busy streets and empty lanes and crowded squares, ducking into doorways and alleys when the need arose. And, because he was the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, it didn't take him long to realize where they were going.

**He's going to the graveyard.  
SH**

**And you're worried. ~Harry~**

**No.  
SH**

**I'm on my way. ~Harry~**

A half an hour later, Sherlock stood in a grove of trees, watching John stare at the smooth granite headstone. Sherlock noted with interest the blue and red graffiti marring the otherwise nondescript face of the stone: _I Believe in Sherlock Holmes_.

He'd noticed this strange phenomenon over the years—crazy fans, mostly, but also some really devout believers who refused to believe Sherlock Holmes had ever been fake, and wanted to let the world know. There were several variations: _I Believe in Sherlock Holmes_, _Moriarty Was Real_, _Sherlock Lives, I Am One of Watson's Warriors, _etcetera, all spray-painted on walls and carved into tabletops and emblazoned across the streets of London.

John's lips quirked in a little smile. He always smiled when he saw one of the inscriptions, and, to Sherlock's amusement, had even contributed a little. Now, the doctor ran his fingers gently over the brightly colored words, mouthing them to himself.

A voice spoke from behind him.

"I hope you didn't do that."

John actually jumped in surprise, whirling around to face the owner of the voice with a gasp.

"Oh…Harriett! You shouldn't sneak up on me like that!" John let out a shaky breath and grinned at her. "You're getting too good at that these days. I swear, you do it on purpose."

Harriett grinned. "Maybe sometimes," she admitted. "But I wasn't trying this time. You were just distracted."

John's grin slipped. "Yeah…well…" He turned back to the headstone, not looking up from it as his sister stepped forward to stand by his side.

A heavy silence prevailed for a long while, before finally John asked, "How did you know I was here?"

Harriett opened her mouth to say something, and then seemed to think better of it. She took a moment to think over her answer, blue eyes clearly troubled.

John seemed to sense her indecision and looked at her with wary eyes. "Harry? What is it?"

Harry sighed and muttered something under her breath.

"What?"

"A little birdy told me," she mumbled louder, begrudgingly.

John frowned at her, clearly puzzled. "Excuse me? A little birdy?"

"Well…a tall birdy. In a coat."

Sherlock chuckled to himself. Sometimes Harriett had the most delightful sense of humor.

John wasn't appreciating it. "Care to explain?"

Harriett shook her head vaguely. "Not really. It's…not really my place to explain." She raised her voice, obviously directing her words at Sherlock now: "_Hint, hint!_"

**Subtle.  
SH**

"Who's texting you?" John asked curiously.

Harriett waved her hand in a general sort of motion. "Just a friend."

**Why aren't you coming out? ~Harry~**

"Seriously, who are you texting?" John asked, looking a little annoyed now. "Who is it that you can't tell me?"

**Come out! If you don't, I swear, I'll tell him. ~Harry~**

Sherlock couldn't move. He felt frozen, now that the moment was finally upon him.

"Harry…" John's tone was full of warning. "Tell me what's going on. Why are you on edge? Who's texting you?" Sherlock could practically see John's hackles raising, as he began to suspect conspiracy and a danger to his sister. He'd obviously decided that her correspondent was dangerous in some way.

Harry sighed and glared angrily around herself, frustration clearly written all over her fair features. Her anger was not directed at John, but at Sherlock—for not coming out.

**I don't think I can do this.  
SH**

**Don't you dare leave us here. ~Harry~**

**What do I do?  
SH**

**…It might be easier if you're alone. ~Harry~**

**No!  
SH**

**I'm leaving now. ~Harry~**

**Don't you dare.  
SH**

"Harry, what's going on." John's voice was low and serious, and he was looking her steadily in the eye. "If you don't tell me, I swear, I will find out."

Harry did not look away, but held his gaze. "And _I_ swear, it's nothing for you to worry about," she replied. "I'm leaving now, John—" John opened his mouth to protest, but she pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "No, don't interrupt. I'm leaving, Johnny, but only for a few minutes. Stay here, and I'll be back."

"Harry—" John was obviously scared, now. "What's going on? Why won't you tell me?"

"I shouldn't have come," she muttered to herself. "I meant to help, but I've only made matters worse."

Harriett pulled out her mobile as it vibrated again, but did not read the new text. Instead, to Sherlock's alarm, she held the device out to John invitingly.

"I don't think he's ready," she told him, only adding to his confusion but pressing on regardless. "But this should explain everything. I'm sorry."

Then she turned and, to both John and Sherlock's dismay, hurried away.

And John only stood there, staring after his sister with several conflicting emotions playing across his face.

_John's POV_

John was seething inside. What had started as a quiet visit to his best friend's grave had turned into a potential conspiracy theory. Something was clearly wrong with his sister, and what was even more alarming was her refusal to tell him what it was. But at the same time, she hadn't seemed scared—only really angry at something, or someone.

But who?

Finally, he looked down at the mobile and flicked it open. She'd said it would explain everything, after all. So if he wanted answers, he'd do better to look through the phone than to stare after her retreating form.

He opened the new text first…and stared.

**Don't go. I'm…please, don't go. I won't be able to do it.  
SH**

_SH?_

No…no, it…it couldn't be.

John stared, wide-eyed at the screen.

It…couldn't be Sherlock. No, it didn't even _sound_ like Sherlock. Of course it wasn't. SH could stand for anything. Didn't Harriett have a friend named Suzie? Or maybe it was Sarah. Harriett _had_ to have a friend with an 'S' name, though…right? And 'H' surnames were common. Howards, Harrison, Hope, Hooper…Holmes.

Unbelieving, he scrolled up to the very top of the conversation—it looked like she hadn't deleted any of the texts in several years.

The first conversation, he realized with a start, was the day Harry had moved in with him.

**DULL. Just tell him already; this is getting annoying to watch.**

It…sounded like Sherlock. So much like Sherlock.

John scrolled down the line, reading the various conversations his sister had had with this stranger over the months. At first they hadn't texted at all, and the date stamps between "_Come back soon. I don't know why you're choosing to stay hidden, but he needs you. ~Harry~_" and "_John needs help. SH"_ had a year and a half between them, but after that, the texting happened a lot more often. There were a lot of conversations concerning John—in fact, most of them were.

**He's thinking about you again. I can tell. ~Harry~**

**I'm thinking about him too.  
SH**

Eventually, he began to get into more recent conversations.

**My work is almost done.  
SH**

**You mean whatever's keeping you away? ~Harry~**

**Yes.  
SH**

**So you'll be back soon. ~Harry~**

**It would seem so.  
SH**

**You're going all formal on me again, man. What's on your mind? ~Harry~**

**Am I really that easy to read?  
SH**

**Insanely. ~Harry~**

**It must be something about you Watsons…  
SH**

**Excuse me? ~Harry~**

**Nothing.  
SH**

**Riiiiiight. I have a question. ~Harry~**

**Then ask it.  
SH**

**Why'd you leave in the first place? You never told me. You know, you promised me you'd stay by him. Keep him safe. Remember? ~Harry~**

**I remember. And trust me, that's exactly what I am doing.  
SH**

**…You know what? ~Harry~**

**What?  
SH**

**I think I do. ~Harry~**

**Trust me?  
SH**

**Yeah. ~Harry~**

**Yes, it's definitely something about you Watsons…  
SH**

The more he read, the more he became convinced that the correspondent was indeed Sherlock Holmes, but while that's the only possibility that fit all of the facts, there was still one problem that he kept coming back to:

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

He'd _seen_ him die. He was sure of it. He'd seen him fall. He'd _seen_ him.

Finally, he reached the last conversation, culminating in that pleading line: _Don't go. I'm…please, don't go. I won't be able to do it._

And John realized something very important.

Whether or not this strange pen pal was Sherlock Holmes or an imposter or a random friend who happened to sign their texts 'SH'…they were here.

They were _here._

They had said 'don't go'. Harry had told him 'not to leave us here'. And if this contact hadn't left yet…they were still here. Somewhere, somewhere close. Watching.

It was a huge risk. John didn't even know if he completely believed yet, in the only possibility that fit all…okay, most…of the facts.

His heart was pounding in anticipation as he tentatively raised his voice.

"Sherlock?"

_Sherlock's POV_

Oh no. _Oh_ no.

Sherlock did not _understand._ He'd been ready for this. But now, this paralyzing _fear_ had this terrible hold on him.

Before the Fall, he'd never feared for the future. He'd taken everything in stride, and nothing had changed, per se.

Over the last three years…things _had_ changed. _Sherlock_ had changed. He'd felt…fear. For the future. And now, he was feeling that fear like never before. It was horrible—like frost, creeping up his throat, down his spine, at odds with the strange heat of apprehension putting sweat on his brow and red in his cheeks.

After three years, one thing had not changed. He was still a_fraid_ of fear, and he did not know how to…to _deal_ with it.

And so when John called his name, that frost sent a wave of goose bumps down his arms, and that heat overwhelmed his heart.

And he knew that he wasn't ready. Not yet. Not here, not now—he couldn't do it.

It was too late, but irrationality—_curse it all_—had a hold on him, in the form of that horrible fear, and so, without thinking, the great Sherlock Holmes…

…turned…

…and…

…ran.


	13. The Chase and the Tackle

**_AN: So, here's the final installment! Yay . . .? While I am sad to be leaving fanfiction behind, this is probably for the best. I will not have access to the internet for a very long time so it's better to finish this now._**

**_Thank you so much to everyone who read and enjoyed this! I just really want to put something good on this site and let other peopel enjoy the fun I've had with words, so I really hope you've all had fun reading! Thanks especially for the reviews! I know I haven't responded to many of them (hardly any, in fact), but that does not mean that I haven't treasured every single one of them. Each one puts a suspiciously wide grin on my face._**

**_Also, something I have to say again, just in case: THIS IS NOT SLASH!_**

**_Now that that's out of the way, Ladies and Gentlefans, without furthur adieu, the final chapter._**

* * *

Five Times (pt 3): Through the Streets of London

_Three years of "he's dead", one moment of "he's alive", and the resulting chase through the streets of London._

XxX

Night had fallen on a sad, sad scene in one lonely graveyard in London, England. Dusk, however, stole across the springy grass and somber memorials unnoticed by the short, blue-eyed man standing by the smooth, granite, graffiti-ridden gravestone. Neither was it acknowledged by the tall, pale-skinned man standing, frozen, a dozen feet away, hidden from sight. The tall one had come to meet a lost friend, and the short one had come to mourn one.

That's not what either was doing, however. Ironic that the short man's hope for the living had flared like a live spark in a land set aside for the dead, and that the tall man's fear of being sent away was keeping him in exile.

"Sherlock?" John's grip tightened just the smallest fraction on the mobile in his hand as he called out into the darkness for someone he hadn't had any hope of ever seeing again.

There was a long moment of silence, but it wasn't just 'quiet'. It was charged with anticipation, and anxiety, and dread, and the expectation that something would happen coupled with the nagging certainty that nothing would.

And then, suddenly, John saw a flash of movement to his right, just on the edge of his vision, and heard the pounding of running footsteps, muffled by the thick grass.

_He's running_.

No sooner had the realization struck John before he, too, burst into a sprint, eyes locked on the rapidly disappearing figure making straight for the graveyard gate.

He didn't know if it was Sherlock, but whoever it was, he was going to catch him or her. Then, he would finally have his answers.

Past the wrought iron fence they dashed, brushing past Harry without giving her more than a thought. John could hear her calling out to him, but she wasn't calling his name or telling him to come back.

"_Get him, John! Don't lose him!"_

Strange. John put it out of his mind and poured on the speed.

This bloke he was chasing obviously knew the streets of London well. He swerved around turns and navigated busy intersections and traffic jams without any noticeable hesitation. Not only that, but when John turned the next corner, it was to see the man shimmying up a fire escape.

John caught the metal bar and quickly heaved himself up, concentrating on the sound of the pounding footsteps above him. Up, up he climbed, to burst out onto an empty rooftop just as the man disappeared over the side.

John rushed to the edge, a moment of panic causing his already-flustered heart to skip a beat, only to witness the man drop onto the roof of a shorter building only a half a dozen feet down.

No hesitation. John followed.

As he ran, taking note with interest of their route across the rooftops of London, John tried to identify the man. He was tall; that much was easily discernible. It was dark up here—John couldn't see his face—but he could make out flashes of pale skin, and the man was clearly wrapped in a long coat, by the way its edges flapped as he ran.

With every new detail, John's suspicions—and hope—were given new life, new form.

He didn't know how it was possible, but then again, if this was Sherlock…well, hadn't he asked for a miracle?

The tall man—_Sherlock?_—took another fire escape down to into an alley below. Where was he going? He had to have some sort of destination, right? He couldn't just be randomly flying through the streets of London with such certainty without a destination in mind?

But then again, if this _was_ Sherlock…

If this were Sherlock, John didn't _need_ to know where the blasted madman was going. He just had to catch him, and John had used to follow Sherlock through the streets of London easily. Keeping up with the consulting detective was what John did best.

Indeed, he realized with a start, as he turned another corner and found himself in an alley that was a bit darker than the main street, he was actually gaining a little, despite the man's long legs.

"Oi! You! Stop!" John bellowed, putting on another burst of speed. To his satisfaction, his target hesitated at the sound of his voice. It wasn't much—just a little stumble, a little turn of the head to look behind—but it was enough. John launched himself forward, throwing out his arms, and tackled the man to the ground.

Before he could put up a struggle, John had drawn his gun and pinned him down. "Don't move," he ordered. "I'm armed and I'm not afraid to shoot."

It was dark—too dark to see the man's face—but he could see the vaguest outline—a touch of warm light highlighting a strong nose, a sharp cheekbone, a dark curl. However, his captive let out a breathless laugh at his words, and suddenly John didn't need to see his face. He was flashing back to three years ago, when he'd heard that _exact same laugh_. From the lips of a man who was now dead.

John's hand shook and the gun slipped from his suddenly numb fingers, clattering to the cement. "Holy…"

He staggered back, releasing the man—_Sherlock._ "Oh my…oh my _God_," he gasped. "It's you; it's—it's really—it's _you._"

Sherlock let out another gasping laugh, which sounded the slightest bit hysterical to John, and sat up, swaying slightly. "Oh. Oh, that was good. That was…I think I needed that." He drew a shuddering breath and let it out in a huff. "You…you're here. You followed me. I think I…I think I expected that."

John could only stare at him, wide-eyed and gaping. "You…you're…_alive_," he managed to choke out.

Sherlock looked up at him, and he could just make out the sparse light glinting off of his silvery eyes. "_Yeeeeeees…_" he replied slowly, eyeing John warily. "I suppose I am." He let out another huff and moved suddenly into action, trying to push himself to his feet. "Though, I'll admit," he continued as he straightened up and brushed off his coat, "I wasn't quite sure myself there, for a bit."

'Dumbstruck' was a good word to describe John at that moment. Also—'flabbergasted', 'shocked-beyond-coherency', and 'I'm-pretty-sure-Hell-just-froze-over' are all suitable to demonstrate how he was feeling. All the suspicions from before had done nothing to prepare him for this moment—for seeing Sherlock, standing there, heart beating, chest rising and falling, eyes bright and alert.

Finally, he managed to seize upon an actual coherent train of thought. "You—you aren't hurt, are you? Are you okay? Are you injured?"

He thought he may have seen a hint of a smile, though it was too dark to say for sure. "No—no, I'm fine. Brilliant, actually." In John's opinion, he sounded a little dazed. "Wonderful. Absolutely…why?"

There was no warning for Sherlock. He could see only John's faint silhouette in front of him, outlined by the sparse yellow light from a streetlamp somewhere out on the main road, and the form was stock still—frozen with shock. Then, suddenly, it wasn't. Sherlock felt a sudden, blunt pain rock his head back, and he stumbled into the wall with the force of the blow. The whole world blurred and stars erupted across his vision.

John shook his hand and stared at Sherlock's crumpled form, which was sluggishly trying to get up. "Because now I don't feel guilty about that," he answered Sherlock's previous question.

Then suddenly he was moving forward, crouching next to his friend and helping him up. Sherlock finally managed to focus, blinking owlishly up at John. "I guess I deserved that," he managed to say, sounding the slightest bit dazed.

He had—but John found that he couldn't stay angry at the old detective. Rather, the indignation and fury was replaced by a rush of affection.

"Ah, c'mere, you." John grinned and pulled his not-dead friend into a tight hug. "You know, you _did_ deserve that."

Sherlock hesitated a long moment, before putting his arms, too, around John. "Do I deserve this, too?" he asked.

John's grin widened and he pulled away, looking up at his best friend in the world. "This and more," he confirmed. "Now come on; we need to get you home." He took Sherlock by the wrist—noting, happily, the pulse beating steadily under his fingers—and lead him out of the alley.

Out in the main road, bathed in the light of the street lamps, John looked over at Sherlock and hungrily took in every single familiar detail. The alabaster skin, turned almost orange in the light; the bright eyes, darting around and taking in every single detail of the world around them; the dramatic coat, flapping about his heels. John recognized the bow of his lips, the arch of his nose, the jut of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw—every single tiny detail. Every nuance.

It was all so familiar.

They were silent as they walked, both just happy to be standing next to each other and both, on some level, deeply shocked to be in that situation. They didn't call for a cab at first—it just felt too right to be wandering the streets of London together. And when they did finally decide to ride the rest of the way, John could only stare as Sherlock stepped to the curb and raised an arm to an oncoming taxi. The gesture was so familiar, so _right._

And climbing into the cab after Sherlock—by now, the déjà vu-ness of it all was really starting to get to John. It felt like a dream.

"Mrs. Hudson is going to have a heart attack," he finally stated, breaking the silence of the cab's interior.

Sherlock's lips quirked up in a smirk. "I imagine she will," he agreed. "As will just about everyone else."

John laughed softly. "I can't wait to see Anderson's face. He'd finally believed he was rid of you."

Sherlock chuckled as well. "He should have known he'd never be rid of me," he replied smugly.

They lapsed once again into silence, though Sherlock noticed that John seemed a little distant. "Everything all right?"

John started a little, as if snapped from a very pressing train of thought, and then, when he'd completely registered what Sherlock had said, he stared at him with calculating eyes.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, concerned that maybe his abrupt return had affected John a bit more than he'd anticipated.

"I guess I should have known I'd never be rid of you too, eh?" John asked after a long moment, lips quirking up in a fond smile.

Sherlock smirked back. "I don't know what you were thinking, actually believing I was gone," he confirmed.

John nodded in agreement. "Daft of me," he muttered to himself, leaning back into the cab's seat.

After another long moment, however, he spoke up again.

"But why were you gone in the first place? And why did you run?"

Sherlock looked away, out the window, watching the streets of London fly by. "That's a conversation better saved for once we're safely home," he murmured, almost too low for John to hear.

"No," John objected, turning around fully to face him. "No, I need to know. Now. You just left me to believe you were _dead_, Sherlock. Dead. You know how much that hurt? And you left me for _three bloody years._ The least you can do is tell me why."

Sherlock was silent for such a long moment that John almost believed that he wasn't going to answer. Just as he was coming to this conclusion, however, Sherlock spoke, his voice low.

"John…if a madman threatened me…if he told you to do something, and I would die if you didn't…would you do it?"

"Yes," John said immediately. Then he faltered. "Well…that would depend. I'd try to save you. I'd look for a way out, first."

Sherlock nodded. "Me, too," he agreed softly.

It took John a second to understand the meaning behind it. "What'd Moriarty do?" he demanded, eyes hardening. "What'd he threaten you with?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving the moon glowing brightly above the rooftops. "I had to jump," he said slowly. "It had to be me."

"_Why_, Sherlock?" John pressed.

Finally, Sherlock tore his gaze from the world outside, turning his head to look John directly in the eye. "You," he stated simply. "If I didn't…you would die. You…and Mrs. Hudson…and Lestrade. All of you."

When John made no move to speak, he continued, "If they didn't see me jump, Moriarty's snipers would have shot you. Right there, in the street."

John bit his lip. "And…the 'note'?"

Sherlock let out a heavy breath. "_It's a trick—it's just a magic trick_," he murmured.

John's eyes widened in understanding. "You were warning me," he realized. "Telling me…that what happened next would be fake. It was a _magic trick_."

Sherlock nodded but said not a word.

John let out an incredulous laugh. "Some magic trick," he commented. "Scared the stuffing out of all of us. Are you ever going to stay dead?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Frankly, I find Heaven frightfully dull. Tried Hell, but it didn't work out so well there, either—_bo_ring. Earth is so much more interesting."

John stared at him. "I sincerely hope that you're joking."

Sherlock just smirked knowingly and settled down lower in his seat.

xxx

"Mrs. Hudson, we're home!" John called as he swung open the door to 221b. "Has Harry come back yet?"

"Yes, dearest, she's up in the—" Mrs. Hudson broke off as she came out from behind the stairs and saw Sherlock standing framed in the door behind John.

Her eyes went wide and her old face paled. "Sher…Sher…Sher…" she stuttered, trying to force the word out.

Sherlock's expression was uncharacteristically soft. "Hello again, Mrs. Hudson," he greeted her, stepping forward into the room.

That, apparently, was the last straw. Mrs. Hudson's eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed right there on the carpet in a dead faint.

John and Sherlock froze in shock, staring at the old woman lying in a heap on the carpet. "Um…" was all Sherlock seemed able to say.

Finally, John managed to come to his senses. "Curse it all," he muttered under his breath as he quickly knelt down next to Mrs. Hudson, checking her pulse and her forehead and feeling around in her pockets for her smelling salts. "When I said she'd have a heart attack, I wasn't being serious," he complained.

"John?"

At that moment, Harry appeared at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a thick, fluffy pink robe that was over a black tank top and flannel pajama bottoms. She took only a moment to register the scene below her: John hunched over Mrs. Hudson, who was out cold, and a tall man in a dramatic Belstaff coat hovering near. Then she smiled and began to descend the stairs. "Well, it's about time I see you face to face," she greeted Sherlock with a smirk. "You old scaredy-cat."

Sherlock heaved a put-upon sigh. "Hello, Harriett Watson," he greeted her with a flick of his coat and a formal—if slightly mocking—bow.

Harriett chuckled. "Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" she asked in a formal—if equally mocking—tone.

Before Sherlock could answer, there was a voice at the door, which was still hanging ajar. "Harry? I got your text and came as fast as I…oh, _God_."

Everyone turned to see DI Greg Lestrade standing framed in the doorway, eyes wide as he stared at the gathering before him—a woman in her nightgown, a jumper-wearing man crouching over another lady who was clearly unconscious, and, most alarmingly, a dead man walking. A _familiar_ dead man walking.

"Greg," Harry greeted him with a grin. "Thank you for coming."

"Yeah I…" Greg trailed off, still staring at Sherlock, gaping in clearly-written shock. "Harry…what's going on? Care to explain?"

Again, before Sherlock could answer, there came another voice, this one groggy and a bit confused. "John…John, dear? What's happened? Oh…I had the strangest dream…"

And then Mrs. Hudson saw Sherlock again. She froze in shock.

"Mrs. H, please, _do not_ faint again," John pleaded, grasping her arm. "Yes, I know, this is a little strange, but you're not hallucinating. It's actually Sherlock. _Our_ Sherlock."

Sherlock groaned. "My God, do all the reunions have to be at once?" he complained. "This is ridiculous."

"DI," a nasally voice called from outside. "Is something wrong? What's going…oh, _crud._" Anderson had appeared in the doorway, his shrew-like face slack with astonishment as he stared at Sherlock. "Uh, Lestrade? I think I'm seeing ghosts."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It all had to be at once, didn't it?" he muttered to the heavens, as if rebuking whatever higher power had seen fit to spring this on him. "You just couldn't give me a break?"

"Anderson, Lestrade?" _another_ voice met their ears. "What're you doin', just standin' about? Is something wr…Holy…!"

And there was Donovan, gazing at Sherlock from behind Lestrade and Anderson with eyes the size of saucers. "Tell me I'm seein' things," she murmured.

Sherlock huffed. "Does anyone else have the distinct feeling that it's a bit too crowded in here?" He strode over to the door. "Look, I know this is all very confusing, but now is not the time to be gaping at me like fish out of water. Come back tomorrow morning." And he closed the door in their faces.

"Sherlock!" John scolded.

"What?" he asked innocently, looking at John blankly, as if he really did not know why John was looking so cross.

John rolled his eyes. "Let them in," he ordered.

"But _John_," Sherlock whined, sounding remarkably like a little child just commanded to do a particularly nasty chore. "It's _stifling _in here, and _Anderson_—"

"Let. Them. In," John interrupted firmly.

Sherlock pouted.

"_Sherlock._"

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. "All _right_, okay!" he grumbled irritably. He swung the door open, and there still stood Anderson, Donovan, and Lestrade, still looking slightly shell-shocked. This amused Sherlock enough to lessen the blow of having to then say, "Alright, alright, you can come in. But we're taking this up to the flat; this hallway is _too small_ and the stench of stupidity and ignorance is growing by the second. It's putting me off."

And then Sherlock was gone, hurrying up the stairs and brushing past Harry to enter the flat.

Lestrade let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Yep, it's definitely him," he decided, stepping into the flat.

"He's alive…" Donovan mumbled, still wide-eyed. "How…how is that possible?"

John grimaced at them. "It's a story I think he'd better tell," he replied.

From the top of the stairs, as if in answer, a voice called, "John, do we absolutely _have_ to let Anderson in? I just got back; I don't want my flat _contaminated_." He shrilled the word mockingly, in a bad impression of Anderson.

"Yes, Sherlock!" John called up as he helped Mrs. Hudson to her feet. "You can't just leave him out on the street!"

"Why not?" Sherlock poked his head back into the hallway. "It sounds reasonable enough to me."

John rolled his eyes but grinned fondly up at the detective. "Get back inside, you old twat, if you're not going to be helpful."

Sherlock's eyes positively lit up. "I can be helpful!" And then he was flying down the stairs again, at John's side in an instant. "Mrs. Hudson, come with me. I'll help you up. Do you want some tea?"

Donovan's eyes, if possible, went even wider as she watched Sherlock gently relieve John of the old lady and assist her up the stairs, fussing like an old grandma as she weakly insisted that she was fine, all fine, and maybe she'd have a just a "little cuppa…okay, a _big_ cuppa…yes that would be fine; thank you, Sherlock dear." Anderson, too, was completely stunned.

John just laughed.

Upstairs, Sherlock busied himself making tea. He made Mrs. Hudson a big, steaming mug, went about making John's while muttering to himself, "milk, no sugar; milk, no sugar," and even made one for Lestrade and one for Donovan. For himself and Harry there was a small cup of coffee (black, too sugars for him, and decaf for Harry), and he made a point of not giving Anderson anything, which prompted John to get up and ask Anderson if he wanted something. Sherlock pouted at him from behind his coffee cup.

Donovan and Anderson were star struck by this Sherlock that seemed so much like the Holmes from three years ago and yet…so different. To them.

The gathering was almost complete, everyone was just about ready to calm down, and John was just settling into his chair, when there came a knock at the door.

Before John could get up, Sherlock had leapt from his seat. "I'll get it!" He was gone before anyone could even move.

Anderson finally seemed to find his voice. "What's gotten into him? Is it really…?"

"It's really him," John confirmed with a happy smile. "And he's just glad to be home."

Below them, they could vaguely hear what was going on at the door. Interestingly enough, that happened to be…nothing. Sherlock opened the door…and slammed it closed again. They all shared baffled looks.

Sherlock appeared again in the doorway. "No one of importance," he announced, crossing the room and stepping over the coffee table to get into his chair.

"Who was it?" John asked.

"No one."

"_Sherlock_."

Sherlock huffed. "Dull. Boring. Fat. Not worth my time."

John groaned. "Sherlock, you have to let him in."

"Do not."

"_Sherlock._"

"_You_ let him in, if you're so worried about it," Sherlock said crossly, folding his arms over his chest in a rather good impression of a pouting child.

"That will not be necessary, Brother," a voice came from the doorway. Everyone turned to see Mycroft Holmes, leaning on his umbrella and eyeing Sherlock with amusement. "I know how to let myself in."

"Clearly," Sherlock muttered. "And more's the pity."

John groaned. "This is going to be a long story," he muttered to himself, envisioning Sherlock trying to tell of his not-death with not only Anderson and Donovan, but Mycroft as well, listening.

"Oh, don't worry, Doctor Watson," Mycroft assured him with a flick of his umbrella. "I only came to check on you all, and make sure Sherlock was behaving himself. I'm not going to stay for the story on why and how."

Sherlock snorted rather unbecomingly. "Yes, because you already know it," he observed with distaste.

Mycroft smirked. "I make it my business to know what my brother is up to, Sherlock. You must know that."

"Wait, you _knew_?!" John spluttered, taken aback. "You knew he was alive, and didn't tell us?"

"I'm afraid I was begged not to," Mycroft replied dismissively.

"I did not _beg_," Sherlock spat, scowling at his brother darkly.

Mycroft chuckled to himself. "Whatever you say," he said knowingly. "Good luck, Doctor Watson. He's going to be a bit of a handful, it appears." And with that parting advice, he turned and disappeared, letting himself out.

"Who was that?" Donovan demanded.

"You have a _brother?_" Anderson looked, if possible, even more incredulous.

Sherlock heaved a sigh as, like John, he realized that this night was quickly snowballing into something he wasn't going to be able to handle.

xxx

The story took a long time in telling, and as midnight came and went, everyone felt physically, emotionally, and mentally exhausted. However, at the end of it, everyone—even Anderson—had the whole story. And nearly everyone was deeply shocked.

Donovan and Anderson, especially, were astonished by this new side of Sherlock that they hadn't known existed—the side that would make tea for an old lady, and that noticed when Mrs. Hudson began to nod off and helped her to bed.

The side that, when John finally fell asleep, took off his huge coat and gently covered him with it, and warned the others not to disturb him—something about having a long night.

The side that had jumped off of a building to save his friends.

Lestrade still felt like he was dreaming, and, by the time Sherlock had finished his fantastical story about his encounter with Moriarty on St. Bart's roof, he was almost convinced that he was missing something. Was it April First? No, no…it was September. So, not April Fools.

But that story—it just wasn't connecting. It sounded too outrageous. The whole story was like something one would find in an adventure novel. Jumping off of a building to stop snipers? Faking one's death? Going into hiding for _three_ years, to go undercover and take down the "web" of a psychotic villain? No…_no_…it didn't make sense…but…it _did._

Somehow, at the same time…it _did_ make sense.

It _did_ fit _all_ of the facts, especially when taking into account that Sherlock was involved.

And Lestrade had never met Moriarty, but he remembered "the Great Game". He remembered the bombed hostages, and the little puzzles Sherlock had to solve.

A madman like that certainly was liable to construct a situation like this.

It was when Harry, like John and Mrs. Hudson, lost her fight with unconsciousness and slumped in her chair, fast asleep, that the rest of them finally decided that it was time to adjourn.

"I still can't believe it," Donovan said as she stood up and brushed off her slacks, trying unsuccessfully to blink the sleep from her eyes. "You're alive…you're not dead…"

Sherlock smirked at her. "You're innocent," he agreed with a nod of his head.

She nodded groggily—and then blinked in alarm as what he had said finally pierced the sleepy haze enveloping her brain. "Wait…_what?_ How'd you…?" She looked up at him, eyes brighter and more alert in the face of this surprise.

"Deduced it," he replied vaguely.

She narrowed her eyes at him and didn't look away as she backed out of the room. "Well, good night then, Fr…Holmes."

Sherlock felt strangely touched by her final correction. Sure, it wasn't 'Sherlock', but it would generally be considered better than 'Freak', right?

"I suppose you're going to be tramping around crime scenes again?" Anderson asked on his way out, not sounding quite as irritated about the fact as he might have several hours before, though he was still obviously a bit miffed.

"As soon as possible," Sherlock confirmed. Then he looked back at John, still passed out in his arm chair, and hesitated. "Well…eventually."

Anderson chewed his lip uncertainly for a second before risking another comment: "You're not really a psychopath. Sorry 'bout that."

Sherlock sighed. "I keep _telling_ you Anderson—I'm a _sociopath._ If you're just now realizing that I wasn't lying, then I think it's high time _you_ get your head checked."

Anderson rolled his eyes. "Right. There's the Sherlock I know. Nice to see you're back."

"I don't know what you mean," Sherlock replied, though he smirked knowingly.

Lestrade was the last one out. "It's good to have you back, Sherlock," he said, and he surprised himself with the realization that he actually meant it. Sherlock may be a really big pain in the neck sometimes, but Lestrade was very, _very_ glad that he was back.

Sherlock, too, surprised himself—by believing it. He nodded once and didn't say anything—just looked away.

Lestrade smiled to himself, understanding that that nod had had more meaning than any words or smirk Sherlock might have thrown his way. "See you at the next crime scene," he called as he stepped out and the door closed behind him.

Sherlock reflected over their parting comments—the strange affection they had shown him. Then he felt a rush of amusement. _Can't wait until I show up at the next interesting case and we can get back to insulting each other._ He had no doubt that that was what would happen.

The flat was strangely silent now, devoid of guests, but at the same time, it was perfect. Sherlock climbed the stairs slowly, listening to their every creak, and he paused in the doorway, looking at the scene before him—John, still fast asleep in his chair, looking touchingly peaceful, and Harry, lying across the sofa, snoring softly.

Sherlock chuckled to himself and went to fetch a blanket. Then, once Harriett was wrapped up nice and warm, he settled down into his own chair to wait out the final hours between dark and light.

xxx

John woke slowly, and rested for a long moment in that strange place between 'not quite asleep anymore' and 'not quite awake yet'. And, when he did finally emerge from the land of unconsciousness, it still took a moment for him to work out what was real and solid and what had been part of his dream.

And then, of course, came the rush of disappointment and the self-deprecation. The '_I can't be_lieve_ I thought that was real; of course it was a dream_' and the '_but it _was_ a rather good dream_'.

And even after he'd come to this conclusion, he wasn't quite ready to get up. He was comfortable where he was. It was warm, and his limbs felt so heavy. He must have had a late night the night before…what had he done again? Odd…he couldn't really remember. It was hard to determine where real life ended and his dream took over.

"Harry…?" he mumbled groggily, shifting and trying to open his eyes and force himself into the world of the living.

Something was encumbering him, however. Something thick and heavy and deliciously warm. It felt familiar, but at the same time, foreign. Whatever it was, it wasn't a blanket…

"John, surely it's not that hard to wake up? You've had nearly ten hours of deep sleep; you've gotten by before with less."

John's eyes snapped open at the reproachful voice and he nearly fell out of his chair. "What the—?!"

He recognized that voice. Unable to believe it, his eyes went immediately to Sherlock's old arm chair.

And sure enough, Sherlock was sitting in it.

"What?" Sherlock asked, concerned at the way John was staring at him. "Is something wrong?"

John stared at him for a moment longer before realization finally struck and he slumped back into his chair, a hazy grin on his face. At the same time, he realized that he was covered with Sherlock's coat.

"It wasn't a dream," he murmured dazedly. Then he laughed out loud and sat up again, grinning at Sherlock. "It _wasn't_ a _dream_!"

"No," Sherlock's brow crinkled as he frowned, puzzled. "Of course it wasn't." He was beginning to be a bit worried about his friend.

John chuckled again, softer. "You're really here," he observed, looking Sherlock up and down, taking in every detail.

"_Yeeeeees_," Sherlock replied slowly.

"You're really alive."

"Yes."

John felt just about on top of the world. "And where are the others? Lestrade and Donovan and Anderson?"

"Gone." Sherlock shrugged. "Left a couple hours ago."

John sat there for a moment, taking it all in, breathing in, out…in, out…in, out, as he gazed around the flat and realized that it suddenly felt a lot more like home than it had in a long time…three years, to be exact.

Sherlock, for his part, was confused with John's antics. "Didn't you know I was real last night?" he asked, baffled.

John laughed again (_he seemed to be doing that a lot,_ Sherlock noticed). "Yes; yeah, I knew. I just…yeah. I knew." He stood.

"But you just said that you thought it was a dream," Sherlock argued, standing as well. "You _just said_—"

"_Sherlock_," John interrupted gently. "Sherlock, I know you're real."

"But _did_ you know?" Sherlock persisted, worried now that the reason last night had been so great was because John had assumed he was just hallucinating.

"_Yes!_" John was laughing by now. "_Yes_, Sherlock, I knew."

Sherlock was still looking a little put out. "Are you sure?"

He was even more puzzled when, after looking up at the ceiling and letting out a happy sigh, John stepped forward and hugged the tall detective. Sherlock stiffened, uncertain about this new development.

"Sherlock—it's good to have you back."

* * *

**_AN: So, it comes to my attention that some people seem to think that Sherlock's "freeze and flee" thing was OOC. Don't get me wrong, I get it, but this really disappoints me. I even explained it a little! Three years have passed, and they weren't exactly spent in some cozy flat. With the life Sherlock's been living, don't you think he might've changed even a little? Maybe he might've felt a little fear?_**

**_That's not to say that I expect this to happen - - that would deeply shock me. I'll let Moffat and Gatiss do what they want with their show; they've done an amazing job so far, after all!_**

**_Thank you for joining me on this roller coaster ride!_**

**_Good night._**

**_~C.L._**


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